‘Well?’ he uttered between heavy breaths. He had conveyed it to her, not verbally, but by means of a letter, which seemed to her a singularly ignoble method of prohibition. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. I’m making a mess of my life— unless you come in and take it. “I’ve brought you up some dinner, Vee,” she said. ‘Ah, the tragedy.
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