All its better points were improved, while the less attractive ones (and they were few in comparison) were subdued, or removed. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. Asking her way once or twice, she passed along Fleet Street into the Strand, and crossed Trafalgar Square, into Piccadilly. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner. His large, coarse lips drew wider apart. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. The discussion wandered, and was punctuated with bread and butter. She may be an infuriating little devil, but she is far from stupid. Then, naturally, I went on talking.
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