She remained stonily in the middle of the hallway until the spinsters' door shut them from view … for ever. ‘That’s wicked, that is. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. . He was always anticipating, stepping into the future, torturing himself with non-existent troubles. It seemed intolerable that she should go home and admit herself beaten. His back was no sooner turned, than she slipped this casket into the box. “Act three.
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