So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. There was a strained, eager expression on his face. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course.
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