“Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. For each costume she had devised a suitable form of matrimonial refusal. For hours he seemed to have pleasant dreams of open skies and airplanes, but then the dreams would disintegrate into fleshy charnel house nightmares where he could hear her calling to him through a fog. You know not in what dark places my life has been cast; with what crimes it has been stained.
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