True, Short was
there, much the same as in the old days; even his dog could be heard
snarling and growling when the policemen administered to him some sly
kick; but as I looked at the squalid and lethargic figure with its sallow,
unhealthy, repulsive face, I was overcome by a feeling of almost physical
nausea. I realised fully how loathsome this gutter Iago had become to me
during the past few months, during which I had had ample opportunity to
note his pettifogging envy and jealousy, his almost simian inquisitiveness
and prying curiosity. I felt I could not work with him; his presence had
become intolerable to me. I realised that this was the _finale_, the
destined end of the _Tocsin_ and of my active revolutionary
propaganda. I had changed. Why not let the dead bury their dead?
At this moment the policeman who had opened the office door to me came up
bringing a letter, which he handed to the inspector.
"It is for you, miss," that functionary said, reading the address, "but I
have orders to open all correspondence. You will excuse my complying with
them."
My heart stood still. Could it be from Kosinski or Giannoli? After a
moment the inspector handed the note to me. It was from the landlord--a
notice to quit. I walked up and showed it to Short.
"Well, what will you do?" he inquired. They were the first words we had
exchanged that morning.
"I shall leave," I replied.
"And how about the paper? Do you think of starting it again?"
"No, I do not think so; not for the present at any rate.
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