This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be. Nothing seemed to be amiss. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. She felt she had to go on. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. " "What means this idle boasting, villain?" said Thames. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy.
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