She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. ” “What case?” “A divorce—or something—I don’t know. A dissipated, loose-living man.
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