They did not care— servant or master, it meant nothing. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. But it was extraordinary what seemingly irrelevant things could restore her to the thought of Capes again. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right. “Ciao, Fragolina. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. " "I can't! I can't—not now!" "Bat!—can't you see that she's the kind who would understand and forgive? She loves you. She remembered him as a dull figure, a big man with a belly that was already showing fat under his fine scarlet clothes. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably.
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