She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. It was the grand nursery of vice. “Here we are, living in the same suburb,” he began. “That’s not. You will find proofs of the bloody deed in his room. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil.
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