There was a stain of wine upon her dress. He depended upon her, for his medicine, for his drink, for the little amusement it was now permissible to give him. ’ She tossed her head. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it.
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