He recognized the handwriting, and turned a shade paler. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. He winced from the wasp-like sting. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths. “Martin, you realize that I’m dating someone, don’t you?” She knew his reply before he uttered it. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. He knew she was out there, he could feel it. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark.
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