"You will make me the happiest of mankind," cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses. He wiped the sweat from his chin and forehead. ” “You are really going on the stage, then?” he said slowly. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. In and out of consciousness she sailed, hearing voices from memory that she could not distinguish from reality. Widgett was a journalist and art critic, addicted to a greenish-gray tweed suit and “art” brown ties; he smoked corncob pipes in the Avenue on Sunday morning, travelled third class to London by unusual trains, and openly despised golf. On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me.
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