“Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. There are so many girls nowadays who are quite unpresentable at tea, with their untrimmed laughs, their awful dispositions of their legs when they sit down, their slangy disrespect; they no longer smoke, it is true, like the girls of the eighties and nineties, nevertheless to a fine intelligence they have the flavor of tobacco. Somehow logic could not explain her. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. You disgust me. Why not kill her here, and leave silently, the way he must have come? Could it be that he had not the intention to kill her? En tout cas, it gave her a chance. Wood's, the carpenter in Wych Street.
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