Listen, it is I. He was confined in the Middle Stone Ward, a spacious apartment, with good light and air, situated over the gateway on the western side, and allotted to him, not for his own convenience, but for that of the keepers, who, if he had been placed in a gloomier or more incommodious dungeon, would have necessarily had to share it with him. We fixed that. “It is from his brother in Paris. My late husband, I mean. She turned with an effort. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. At every step he seemed to be haunted by the ghost of the past. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time. Time enough to do so when she has her affairs settled—if she can settle them. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already.
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