’ She pronounced the name with painstaking accuracy, Gerald noticed. She stood face to face with him, and his voice cut across her speech and made her stop abruptly. She turned the television off. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. ’ Gerald stood back, and watched her cross the room to the closed French doors. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. “And now, look at us! See what we have become. Only one penny—two copies—two pence—thank you, Sir. Something in her voice and manner conveyed an effect of unwonted gravity to him. Stanley. . ’ ‘Sir!’ came from Trodger, and the booted feet clattered off and out of the front door. Charity for the ragtag and the bobtail of the Seven Seas, and none for his own flesh and blood.
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