All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. ’ He scratched his chin as if he thought about it, but covertly kept a careful study of what he could see of her face. ‘And I do understand. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget.
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