‘Laisse-moi. He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. Cheveney strolled up, a pipe in his mouth. I knew where I would go next: Florence. I'm not particular what or where. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. It did not seem quite fair. I shall barely be in time for the theatre. He did not move. She was going through with that, anyhow.
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