Lucy marveled at the billiards table and the sauna. His shadowy eyes revealed two things: that he was oversensitive in his extreme intelligence and that he suffered an acute insomnia. He was human. Marvel, who had been a little discomposed by the treatment he had experienced on Holborn Hill, very composedly filled and lighted his pipe. He looked distant, irritated. Well, they’d got to the pheasants, and in a little while he would smoke. To even presume a lustful thought about her was to ask for one’s own death.
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