Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. “I do not know you,” she said coldly. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. In his condition the boy apparently had been as safe as in the lock-up. In the matter of his conscience he was primitive; and for an educated man to become primitive is to become something of a child. You don't realize what you have done. Behind every one of these myriad fronts she passed there must be a career or careers.
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