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There was something rather ghastly to me in the general unconsciousness that Soames had existed, and more than once I caught myself wondering whether Nupton, that babe unborn, were going to be right in thinking him a figment of my brain. In that extract from Nupton's repulsive book there is one point which perhaps puzzles you.
But here Soames was, no more imaginary, alas! than I. And "labud" what on earth was that? Soames said nothing, but cruelly did not cease to look at me. "Are you sure," I temporized, "quite sure you copied the thing out correctly?" "Quite." "Well, then, it's this wretched Nupton who must have made must be going to make some idiotic mistake.
I protested that the miserable bungler was not I, was not going to be I, but T. K. Nupton; and we had a rather heated argument, in the thick of which it suddenly seemed to me that Soames saw he was in the wrong: he had quite physically cowered. But I wondered why and now I guessed with a cold throb just why he stared so past me. The bringer of that "inevitable ending" filled the doorway.
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