She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other. She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. “So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears.
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