‘You’re only making things worse, you little idiot. She wished he could smoke and dull his nerves a little. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. He felt he had raised a storm which it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to allay. Sepulchre's clock struck eight. Sheppard, passing her hands over his face, and gazing at him with a look that made him shudder.
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