She silently willed him to stop his pacing, to calm down. Why was she noting things like this? Capes seemed selfpossessed and elaborately genial and commonplace, but she knew him to be nervous by a little occasional clumsiness, by the faintest shadow of vulgarity in the urgency of his hospitality. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. But I give you this warning, and let it sink in.
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