He loved Ann Veronica, he said; he was so mad to have her that he defeated himself, and did crude and alarming and senseless things. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. She turned there and beckoned. Gray and tranquil world! Amazing, passionless world! A world in which days without meaning, days in which “we don’t want things to happen” followed days without meaning—until the last thing happened, the ultimate, unavoidable, coarse, “disagreeable. A chill ran through his frame, and, grasping the heavy weapon with which chance had provided him, prepared to strike down the first person who should enter the cell. Wood in their favour.
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