Manning loved her presented itself to her bloodlessly, stilled from any imaginative quiver or thrill of passion or disgust. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. She answered in whispers, for there was the white arm of a woman in the next box peeping beyond the partition within a yard of him. “My dear Miss Stanley, when I talked to you the other afternoon of work and politics and such-like things, my mind was all the time resenting it beyond measure. But get up behind, Blueskin. Light flooded the place. I have—run away.
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