A quarter of an hour passed. Kneebone made no effort to check the unreasonable merriment of his companions, but rather seemed to encourage it. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. There was something fatalistic about the letter H. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige. Everything was going to hell.
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