"He's not to blame," said Jack, rising. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. Not a word passed between them. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. . Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. It must be somewhere hereabouts. Why should you wish to forget it? Unless it is that you did not enjoy it. We’ve deserted the posts in which we found ourselves, cut our duties, exposed ourselves to risks that may destroy any sort of social usefulness in us.
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