Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. " "I agree to that. “It’s a new phase in the life history,” he remarked. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. She wanted air—and the distraction of having moving and changing things about her. "What?… Oh!… Well, good Lord!" He wrenched loose his head and stood up, sending the chair clattering to the floor. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. She dare not risk it. I might utter a million, and still I doubt if I could make you understand.
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