She had dreaded the beginning of this hour. “It’s a matter of feeling with me. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. He kissed her deeply and hungrily. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. You don’t understand the fix I am in.
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