You have never understood what a woman wants.
I am going to Jerry in Paris. You can divorce me. I don't care about
anything now. I won't come back--I won't, I won't--Clare._
He read this all through, very carefully with a serious brow. He finished
it and then knew that he had not read a word of it. He went, slowly, to the
window and opened it because the room was of a stifling heat. Then he took
the letter again and read it. As he finished it again he was conscious that
the door-bell was ringing. He wondered why it was ringing.
He was standing in the middle of the room and speaking to himself: "The
humour of his performance as Lieutenant Pottle, a humour never exaggerated
nor strained ..."
"The humour of his Lieutenant Pottle as a performer--never strained...
never exaggerated... never strained..."
Bobby came in and found him there. Peter's face was so white that his
collar and shirt seemed to be a continuation of his body--a sudden gruesome
nakedness. Both his hands were shaking and his eyes were puzzled as though
he were asking himself some question that he could not solve.
Bobby started forward--
"God, Peter, what--"
"She's gone away, Bobby," Peter said, in a voice that shook a little but
was otherwise grave and almost a whisper, so low was it. "She's gone
away--to Cardillac." Then he added to himself--"Cardillac is my best
friend.
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