His pipe hung dead in his teeth, but the smoke was dense about him. The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. Sulphurous poisons assaulted her nostrils as she threw the stone to one side of its resting place. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. Stanley pronounced, and seemed to hesitate whether he had not gone too far.
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