Winifred, you are deceived in me. I killed him, Nigel. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. Vorsack looked pale and pink.
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