Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone.
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