"I was at Tyburn. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. She simply refuses to see or hear from me again. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. ‘Italian adventurer,’ explained her fiance briefly. She saw a pole-chair; that would be this Mr. ” “Yes, it is. Supposing he too wanted love and his arms were as empty as hers? Some living thing that depended upon her. Then they would leave and she would go back to being alone. That was life. The thought of the picture but added to her despondency. An uncomfortable silence followed. Please don’t tell anyone, mister.
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