It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. Well might she do so, Gerald thought in irritation. ‘She’s still bleeding. “He has asked to see some one,” he whispered to the doctor. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. ’ There was a silence.
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