"He left Dollis Hill at ten o'clock on that night, and has not since returned. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. She was herself conscious of a recklessness of spirits almost hysterical. "Did you write it?" "No. I want to talk to him and go about with him. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. “Very likely,” he answered.
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