“Forty guineas a week. She did not want particularly to know what had caused his agony, what had driven him back to the old coat. She donned her fuzzy slippers and traipsed downstairs, the welcoming smell of coffee beckoning her, the sound of Looney Toons music barely audible from the television set. "His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. “But I have forbidden it!” he said, raising his voice. This done, she waited at the side of the bed; but he gave no sign that he was conscious of her nearness. Strange, I could never learn her history. Since morning he had become fanatical; the atoms of common sense no longer functioned in the accustomed groove. Sulphurous poisons assaulted her nostrils as she threw the stone to one side of its resting place. His face was downcast. One or two landladies refused her with an air of conscious virtue that she found hard to explain. They got in my mouth.
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