She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. An incredible road he had elected to travel; he granted that it was incredible; and along this road somewhere would be Desire. “What is a ballot-box like, exactly?” she asked, as though it was very important to her. When he recovered his mental faculties, he would lie there, neutral; they could save him or let him die, as they pleased; and the doctor knew that he would wear himself out forcing his own will to live into this neutrality. The gale had become a hurricane: that hurricane was the most terrible that ever laid waste our city. By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. For a pity, she has chosen to remain, and it has been her death.
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