"Flying fish. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. It was at his side below the breast, hidden by the dark colour of his close-fitting jacket. While you live in my house you must follow my ideas. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. "What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat.
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