He drifted in and out of consciousness. “I can’t imagine, Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said, leaning towards her, “whatever made you think of coming to stay if only for a week at a Montague Street boarding-house. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. But Gerald wouldn’t hear of it. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. .
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