He never appears to so little advantage as when speaking of him. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. So far he had not stirred; from his bloodless lips had come no sound. They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. "This is strange," said Jack, under his breath. That’s the fact about them. She drew it out with shaking fingers. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. The chance had gone. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself. It’s no good hiding it any more.
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