She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. “One has such ridiculous ideas of the wicked common people and the beautiful machinery of order that ropes them in. I’ve wanted you—always. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. ” “I wanted to, John. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget.
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