He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. He had no use for Ann Veronica; he had never had a use for her since she had been too old to sit upon his knee. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. The following morning found him in the doctor's waiting room, a black cigar turning unlighted in his teeth. “An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor.
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