If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. After occupying himself thus for the best part of an hour, he thought Jack must have given him the slip. ‘Inside, miss!’ ‘But what is it?’ ‘Quick! We need the major.
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