It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. He was beautiful despite the odd angle. She was finally dead, going to Hell. ” He threw open the door of the sitting-room and switched on the electric light.
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