She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. “I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. " Mrs. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. "An idea has just occurred to me," said Gay, "which Jack's narrative has suggested. He did not come out of his chloroform coma and sailed weakly to his death.
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