The rest was easy. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. ” He said jealously. But he reckoned without his host. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. " "Well said, Jack," cried Figg. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. ‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London.
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