What was his problem, she thought to herself. "It reminds you of a red sea suddenly petrified. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. It would have been very well if she had been some common creature who might have been bought off. "And yet, he has been spared thus long; perhaps with a wise purpose," rejoined Thames.
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