If only we are not divided. Would you like me to take one for you?\" \"Nah. "Damnation!" cried Kneebone. He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared, would have met with a fair reception. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Let's get one idea into our heads. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs.
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