And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. “I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand. I often wonder why the young always take us ancients for nambypamby creatures. And Anna was conscious of a few moments of exquisite emotion. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget.
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