” She glared at Sebastian over the drawing table where she was sketching in chalk, then over at the fifteen year old boy who was asleep in a disheveled pile of rushes in the corner. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. She is, in her way, a dear. I overheard them planning your assassination. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. On the left lay the heights of Hampstead, studded with villas, while farther off a hazy cloud marked the position of the metropolis. But that other world, in spite of her resolute exclusion of it, was always looking round corners and peeping through chinks and crannies, and rustling and raiding into the order in which she chose to live, shining out of pictures at her, echoing in lyrics and music; it invaded her dreams, it wrote up broken and enigmatical sentences upon the passage walls of her mind. You’re a piss-poor liar, John.
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