He patted the hand on his sleeve. She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. Drink for him had a queer phase. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish.
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