That her husband was not touching her anymore grew to be like a disease, something to be cured. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. Before many minutes elapsed, he had picked a large hole in the plaster, which showered down in a cloud of dust; and breaking off several laths, caught hold of a beam, by which he held with one hand, until with the other he succeeded, not without some difficulty, in forcing out one of the tiles. Then suddenly the curtain would fall. You know you do, Annabel. No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different.
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