She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. My wife—killed me. I trust you will not accuse me of discourtesy if I express my pleasure that henceforth our ways will lie apart. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury.
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