"I leave this bowl for you," he cried, returning it to the landlord untasted. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. He turned round to keep Anna out by force if possible, but he was too late. Heaven alone knows why.
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