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When the paper came out I had no hesitation in attributing this article, which I thought rather vulgarly overdone, to Drayton Deane, who in the old days had been something of a friend of Corvick's, yet had only within a few weeks made the acquaintance of his widow. I had had an early copy of the book, but Deane had evidently had an earlier.
This reminded me how I had observed at a particular moment after Corvick's death the drop of her desire to see him face to face. She had got what she wanted without that.
I remember our going together one Sunday in August to a huddled house in Chelsea, and my renewed envy of Corvick's possession of a friend who had some light to mingle with his own. He could say things to her that I could never say to him.
I wondered what it might come to, and she went on: "Poor dear, she may swallow the dose. In fact, you know," she added with a laugh, "she really must!" a proposition of which, on behalf of every one concerned, I fully acknowledged the force. Nothing more annoying had ever happened to me than to become aware before Corvick's arrival in England that I should not be there to put him through.
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