There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. She put out her hands to avoid his embrace. Evidently her foresight has saved me a funeral. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. " But the caution came too late.
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