The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. It is a serious accusation. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. Perhaps she was. ‘I don’t want a hue and cry after me, I thank you. Treasure caves to explore! All through these trying days she had recurrently wondered what this strange young man would have to say that Dickens and Hugo had not already said. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic.
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