"I have killed you," cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. The light disappeared. Kneebone assured her that he did say so; and, as a further proof of his sincerity, squeezed her hand very warmly under the table. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut.
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