She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking. ‘Comment? What do you wish?’ ‘What the devil do you think you’re up to now, I’d like to know?’ Her eyes flashed. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered.
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