Giles's bowl, "as his last refreshment on earth. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. “I wonder if it is. Though it’s very kind of you.
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