But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. A thousand eager assistants pressed behind him. No more scuffling. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. How fortunate that she recognises the resemblance. All at once her heart began to patter queerly.
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