He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. "He called me a wanton, Hoddy. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. Had he been trying to stop the grim descent, and had he dimly perceived that perhaps a fine deed would serve as the initial barrier? A drunken idea—a pearl in the midst of a rubbish heap. “I think this ends the business,” he said, turning to his sister.
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