His hair had begun to gray, his belly had just begun to round. “He wants me to have dinner at his parent’s house tonight,” still looking at a series of spots on the carpeting. Unmindful of the terrors of the night, unscared by the danger that threatened him, Rowland consigned his sister's husband and his sister's child to the waves. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips. No window. It's of no use.
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