He was still flashily dressed, with much obvious jewellery and the shiniest of patent boots, but his general bearing and appearance had altered for the worse. He stepped quickly towards her. Her head dangled unnaturally for an instant, unleashed from its moorings, then sank to join her husband’s on the floor. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. At the same time she was wildly exultant at the resolution she had taken, the end she had made to her blunder. “But your sister,” he said. “It’s my fault. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead.
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