I’m fine. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. You are greatly altered. . “She”, you say. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. Altogether, it was the most dreadful noise he had ever heard. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes.
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