She felt like Snow White in a secret forest house populated by dwarves. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. ‘That—that—why do you speak of him?’ ‘Because I feel you ought to know,’ Gerald said calmly, but rising and watching her closely, ‘that all your trouble may be in vain. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. We aren't between him and heaven; he is between us and heaven. But the cases were not identical. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger.
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