In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. “How’s the star?” John’s father asked. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. The house was eerily silent, which alerted her to the idea that someone might be listening. “Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse.
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