Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing. It was then, I am sure, empty. “She wasn’t sane, my wife. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. After he was gone in the morning, Ruth would steal into the study and hurriedly read what he had written the previous night. The opiate has done its duty.
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