... Of course one couldn't "go and call on ladies in their
rooms without havin' some special excuse; they would think that
was awful fresh."
He left the bus midway, at the sign of a periodical shop, and
purchased a _Blackwood's_ and a _Nineteenth Century_. Morton had
told him these were the chief English "highbrow magazines."
He carried them to his room, rubbed his thumb in the lampblack
on the gas-fixture, and smeared the magazine covers, then cut
the leaves and ruffled the margins to make the magazines look
dog-eared with much reading; not because he wanted to appear to
have read them, but because he felt that Istra would not permit
him to buy things just for her.
All this business with details so calmed him that he wondered if
he really cared to see her at all. Besides, it was so
late--after half-past eight.
"Rats! Hang it all! I wish I was dead. I don't know what I do
want to do," he groaned, and cast himself upon his bed. He was
sure of nothing but the fact that he was unhappy. He considered
suicide in a dignified manner, but not for long enough to get
much frightened about it.
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