Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. " "Would you be angry if I offered it to you?" "Very. You’ll end there one day, mark my words. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. But I do not need that Gérard attend.
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