Sheila decided to do a little laundry one day, clothes that were in Lucy’s hamper, a dirty clothes bin that Lucy had insisted that she have for herself separate from the family one. “Dear husband,” she murmured. I am betrothed to Captain Roding, which is why you can’t have him, you see. None at all. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. “I couldn’t help it. Wood scarcely knew where he was. Who could guarantee a safer existence outside Florence? That Sebastian seemed to have a weird immunity to the Pestilence was a trait that went unquestioned, unanswered. I never forgive an injury. The room was dark and dusty. In your heart you know very well that this is absurd.
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