He fended these things off from him with the rump of his fourth piece of cake. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. “Are you sick, Michelle? Maybe you should have stayed home. Sheppard, faintly. “You killed them, didn’t you?” He said. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. The idea that he held in his arms the girl whom he had once so passionately loved, and for whom he still retained an ardent but hopeless attachment, almost overcame him.
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