‘Valade, if you don’t mind. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. Maggot; "Jack will hear you. She was in deadly earnest in everything she did. What's that short for, Lucille?\" \"It is short for Lucia. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. She thought about just asking him to take 116 her to his place and get it over with, but she reconsidered and decided to attempt to get to know him better. “If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully. “I am off to-night,” he said. She has not been accused of any crime. Why wasn't the world full of love, when love made happiness? Why did people hide their natural kindliness as if it were something shameful? Why shouldn't people say what they thought and act as they were inclined? Why all this pother about what one's neighbour thought, when this pother was not energized by any good will? Why was truth avoided as the plague? Why did this young man have one name on the hotel register and another on his lips? Why was she bothering about him at all? Why should there be this inexplicable compassion, when the normal sensation should have been repellance? Sidney Carton. Silk.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 08-09-2024 21:54:14
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