He would make her rub her lips with waxes and other ointments, precursors of lipsticks. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Her soul was full of the sense of disaster. Look what you have brought upon your pets. Which is also puzzling. She doubted if Manning would even listen to that. He did not come out of his chloroform coma and sailed weakly to his death. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice.
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