On his return to the room, Jonathan purposely left the door of the Well Hole ajar. Heaven knows what dim and tawdry conceptions of passion and desire were in that blond cranium, what romance-begotten dreams of intrigue and adventure! but they sufficed, when presently Ann Veronica went out into the darkling street again, to inspire a flitting, dogged pursuit, idiotic, exasperating, indecent. “He was alive at four o’clock this afternoon,” she answered, “but the doctors give little hope of his recovery. He only stays here for you, hoping in vain. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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