Down under the incalculable selfishness of the penitent child there was the man's uneasy recollection of Judas. “You!” she exclaimed. That register would be easy to get at; comforting thought. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. I haven’t taken much account of it until now. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. He must fight the thought continually, day in and day out. Easy enough.
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