He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. I heard from David about you only this morning. “How do you feel?” she asked. ‘I see that Leonardo was right.
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