All through the night an entirely impossible and monumental Capes confronted her, and she argued with him about men and women. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. The rejection caught him like a slap in the face. The knowledge breathed into her heart a satisfying warmth. She was supposed to be lifeless; but she survived the accident, though she never regained her strength. “It makes me feel,” he said, “that nothing is impossible—to have you here beside me. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. Against the sinister, the threatening, monstrous inhumanity of the limitless city, there was nothing now but this supreme, ugly fact of a pursuit— the pursuit of the undesired, persistent male. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. The simile started a laugh in his throat. .
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