Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. They feasted every day and ate all sorts of fresh foods grown in the expansive gardens teeming with vegetables and fruits. I couldn’t help the thought. Once, when he thought he had done so, he smiled an ingratiating smile. “Why won’t you sleep in my bed tonight, Lucia, where 80 it’s warm?” He asked her one night, teasing but mournful, as she stood in her bedroom doorway in a long white gown.
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