I, too, want to understand—to walk with my head in the light. He shrugged and, to Gerald’s relief, made to leave at last. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. Thankfully, he seemed pleased the moment he saw her face, which her mother had made her wash for weeks with the pulp of apples, orange water, and 21 extract of borage among other things. The chief influence was her awakening sense of the need of money. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him.
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