["[Event happened on 2024-01-01 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Winnie Verloc, the widow of Mr Verloc, the sister of the late faithful\nStevie (blown to fragments in a state of innocence and in the conviction\nof being engaged in a humanitarian enterprise), did not run beyond the\ndoor of the parlour. She had indeed run away so far from a mere trickle\nof blood, but that was a movement of instinctive repulsion. And there\nshe had paused, with staring eyes and lowered head. As though she had\nrun through long years in her flight across the small parlour, Mrs Verloc\nby the door was quite a different person from the woman who had been\nleaning over the sofa, a little swimmy in her head, but otherwise free to\nenjoy the profound calm of idleness and irresponsibility. Mrs Verloc was\nno longer giddy. Her head was steady. On the other hand, she was no\nlonger calm. She was afraid. If she avoided looking in the direction of her reposing husband it was\nnot because she was afraid of him. Mr Verloc was not frightful to\nbehold. He looked comfortable. Moreover, he was dead. Mrs Verloc\nentertained no vain delusions on the subject of the dead. Nothing brings\nthem back, neither love nor hate. They can do nothing to you. They are\nas nothing. Her mental state was tinged by a sort of austere contempt\nfor that man who had let himself be killed so easily. He had been the\nmaster of a house, the husband of a woman, and the murderer of her\nStevie. And now he was of no account in every respect. He was of less\npractical account than the clothing on his body, than his overcoat, than\nhis boots--than that hat lying on the floor. He was nothing. He was not\nworth looking at. He was even no longer the murderer of poor Stevie. The only murderer that would be found in the room when people came to\nlook for Mr Verloc would be--herself! Her hands shook so that she failed twice in the task of refastening her\nveil. Mrs Verloc was no longer a person of leisure and responsibility. She was afraid. The stabbing of Mr Verloc had been only a blow. It had\nrelieved the pent-up agony of shrieks strangled in her throat, of tears\ndried up in her hot eyes, of the maddening and indignant rage at the\natrocious part played by that man, who was less than nothing now, in\nrobbing her of the boy. It had been an obscurely prompted blow. The blood trickling on the floor\noff the handle of the knife had turned it into an extremely plain case of\nmurder. Mrs Verloc, who always refrained from looking deep into things,\nwas compelled to look into the very bottom of this thing. She saw there\nno haunting face, no reproachful shade, no vision of remorse, no sort of\nideal conception. She saw there an object. That object was the gallows. Mrs Verloc was afraid of the gallows. She was terrified of them ideally. Having never set eyes on that last\nargument of men's justice except in illustrative woodcuts to a certain\ntype of tales, she first saw them erect against a black and stormy\nbackground, festooned with chains and human bones, circled about by birds\nthat peck at dead men's eyes. This was frightful enough, but Mrs Verloc,\nthough not a well-informed woman, had a sufficient knowledge of the\ninstitutions of her country to know that gallows are no longer erected\nromantically on the banks of dismal rivers or on wind-swept headlands,\nbut in the yards of jails. There within four high walls, as if into a\npit, at dawn of day, the murderer was brought out to be executed, with a\nhorrible quietness and, as the reports in the newspapers always said, \"in\nthe presence of the authorities.\" With her eyes staring on the floor,\nher nostrils quivering with anguish and shame, she imagined herself all\nalone amongst a lot of strange gentlemen in silk hats who were calmly\nproceeding about the business of hanging her by the neck. That--never! Never! And how was it done? The impossibility of imagining the details\nof such quiet execution added something maddening to her abstract terror. The newspapers never gave any details except one, but that one with some\naffectation was always there at the end of a meagre report. Mrs Verloc\nremembered its nature. It came with a cruel burning pain into her head,\nas if the words \"The drop given was fourteen feet\" had been scratched on\nher brain with a hot needle. \"The drop given was fourteen feet.\" These words affected her physically too. Her throat became convulsed in\nwaves to resist strangulation; and the apprehension of the jerk was so\nvivid that she seized her head in both hands as if to save it from being\ntorn off her shoulders. \"The drop given was fourteen feet.\" No! that\nmust never be. She could not stand _that_. The thought of it even was\nnot bearable. She could not stand thinking of it. Therefore Mrs Verloc\nformed the resolution to go at once and throw herself into the river off\none of the bridges. This time she managed to refasten her veil. With her face as if masked,\nall black from head to foot except for some flowers in her hat, she\nlooked up mechanically at the clock. She thought it must have stopped. She could not believe that only two minutes had passed since she had\nlooked at it last. Of course not. It had been stopped all the time. As\na matter of fact, only three minutes had elapsed from the moment she had\ndrawn the first deep, easy breath after the blow, to this moment when Mrs\nVerloc formed the resolution to drown herself in the Thames. But Mrs\nVerloc could not believe that. She seemed to have heard or read that\nclocks and watches always stopped at the moment of murder for the undoing\nof the murderer. She did not care. \"To the bridge--and over I go.\" . . . But her movements were slow. She dragged herself painfully across the shop, and had to hold on to the\nhandle of the door before she found the necessary fortitude to open it. The street frightened her, since it led either to the gallows or to the\nriver. She floundered over the doorstep head forward, arms thrown out,\nlike a person falling over the parapet of a bridge. This entrance into\nthe open air had a foretaste of drowning; a slimy dampness enveloped her,\nentered her nostrils, clung to her hair. It was not actually raining,\nbut each gas lamp had a rusty little halo of mist. The van and horses\nwere gone, and in the black street the curtained window of the carters'\neating-house made a square patch of soiled blood-red light glowing\nfaintly very near the level of the pavement. Mrs Verloc, dragging\nherself slowly towards it, thought that she was a very friendless woman. It was true. It was so true that, in a sudden longing to see some\nfriendly face, she could think of no one else but of Mrs Neale, the\ncharwoman. She had no acquaintances of her own. Nobody would miss her\nin a social way. It must not be imagined that the Widow Verloc had\nforgotten her mother. This was not so. Winnie had been a good daughter\nbecause she had been a devoted sister. Her mother had always leaned on\nher for support. No consolation or advice could be expected there. Now\nthat Stevie was dead the bond seemed to be broken. She could not face\nthe old woman with the horrible tale. Moreover, it was too far. The\nriver was her present destination. Mrs Verloc tried to forget her\nmother. Each step cost her an effort of will which seemed the last possible. Mrs\nVerloc had dragged herself past the red glow of the eating-house window. \"To the bridge--and over I go,\" she repeated to herself with fierce\nobstinacy. She put out her hand just in time to steady herself against a\nlamp-post. \"I'll never get there before morning,\" she thought. The fear\nof death paralysed her efforts to escape the gallows. It seemed to her\nshe had been staggering in that street for hours. \"I'll never get\nthere,\" she thought. \"They'll find me knocking about the streets. It's\ntoo far.\" She held on, panting under her black veil. \"The drop given was fourteen feet.\" She pushed the lamp-post away from her violently, and found herself\nwalking. But another wave of faintness overtook her like a great sea,\nwashing away her heart clean out of her breast. \"I will never get\nthere,\" she muttered, suddenly arrested, swaying lightly where she stood. \"Never.\" And perceiving the utter impossibility of walking as far as the nearest\nbridge, Mrs Verloc thought of a flight abroad. It came to her suddenly.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-01, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-02 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Murderers escaped. They escaped abroad. Spain\nor California. Mere names. The vast world created for the glory of man\nwas only a vast blank to Mrs Verloc. She did not know which way to turn. Murderers had friends, relations, helpers--they had knowledge. She had\nnothing. She was the most lonely of murderers that ever struck a mortal\nblow. She was alone in London: and the whole town of marvels and mud,\nwith its maze of streets and its mass of lights, was sunk in a hopeless\nnight, rested at the bottom of a black abyss from which no unaided woman\ncould hope to scramble out. She swayed forward, and made a fresh start blindly, with an awful dread\nof falling down; but at the end of a few steps, unexpectedly, she found a\nsensation of support, of security. Raising her head, she saw a man's\nface peering closely at her veil. Comrade Ossipon was not afraid of\nstrange women, and no feeling of false delicacy could prevent him from\nstriking an acquaintance with a woman apparently very much intoxicated. Comrade Ossipon was interested in women. He held up this one between his\ntwo large palms, peering at her in a business-like way till he heard her\nsay faintly \"Mr Ossipon!\" and then he very nearly let her drop to the\nground. \"Mrs Verloc!\" he exclaimed. \"You here!\" It seemed impossible to him that she should have been drinking. But one\nnever knows. He did not go into that question, but attentive not to\ndiscourage kind fate surrendering to him the widow of Comrade Verloc, he\ntried to draw her to his breast. To his astonishment she came quite\neasily, and even rested on his arm for a moment before she attempted to\ndisengage herself. Comrade Ossipon would not be brusque with kind fate. He withdrew his arm in a natural way. \"You recognised me,\" she faltered out, standing before him, fairly steady\non her legs. \"Of course I did,\" said Ossipon with perfect readiness. \"I was afraid\nyou were going to fall. I've thought of you too often lately not to\nrecognise you anywhere, at any time. I've always thought of you--ever\nsince I first set eyes on you.\" Mrs Verloc seemed not to hear. \"You were coming to the shop?\" she said\nnervously. \"Yes; at once,\" answered Ossipon. \"Directly I read the paper.\" In fact, Comrade Ossipon had been skulking for a good two hours in the\nneighbourhood of Brett Street, unable to make up his mind for a bold\nmove. The robust anarchist was not exactly a bold conqueror. He\nremembered that Mrs Verloc had never responded to his glances by the\nslightest sign of encouragement. Besides, he thought the shop might be\nwatched by the police, and Comrade Ossipon did not wish the police to\nform an exaggerated notion of his revolutionary sympathies. Even now he\ndid not know precisely what to do. In comparison with his usual amatory\nspeculations this was a big and serious undertaking. He ignored how much\nthere was in it and how far he would have to go in order to get hold of\nwhat there was to get--supposing there was a chance at all. These\nperplexities checking his elation imparted to his tone a soberness well\nin keeping with the circumstances. \"May I ask you where you were going?\" he inquired in a subdued voice. \"Don't ask me!\" cried Mrs Verloc with a shuddering, repressed violence. All her strong vitality recoiled from the idea of death. \"Never mind\nwhere I was going. . . .\" Ossipon concluded that she was very much excited but perfectly sober. She remained silent by his side for moment, then all at once she did\nsomething which he did not expect. She slipped her hand under his arm. He was startled by the act itself certainly, and quite as much too by the\npalpably resolute character of this movement. But this being a delicate\naffair, Comrade Ossipon behaved with delicacy. He contented himself by\npressing the hand slightly against his robust ribs. At the same time he\nfelt himself being impelled forward, and yielded to the impulse. At the\nend of Brett Street he became aware of being directed to the left. He\nsubmitted. The fruiterer at the corner had put out the blazing glory of his oranges\nand lemons, and Brett Place was all darkness, interspersed with the misty\nhalos of the few lamps defining its triangular shape, with a cluster of\nthree lights on one stand in the middle. The dark forms of the man and\nwoman glided slowly arm in arm along the walls with a loverlike and\nhomeless aspect in the miserable night. \"What would you say if I were to tell you that I was going to find you?\" Mrs Verloc asked, gripping his arm with force. \"I would say that you couldn't find anyone more ready to help you in your\ntrouble,\" answered Ossipon, with a notion of making tremendous headway. In fact, the progress of this delicate affair was almost taking his\nbreath away. \"In my trouble!\" Mrs Verloc repeated slowly. \"Yes.\" \"And do you know what my trouble is?\" she whispered with strange\nintensity. \"Ten minutes after seeing the evening paper,\" explained Ossipon with\nardour, \"I met a fellow whom you may have seen once or twice at the shop\nperhaps, and I had a talk with him which left no doubt whatever in my\nmind. Then I started for here, wondering whether you--I've been fond of\nyou beyond words ever since I set eyes on your face,\" he cried, as if\nunable to command his feelings. Comrade Ossipon assumed correctly that no woman was capable of wholly\ndisbelieving such a statement. But he did not know that Mrs Verloc\naccepted it with all the fierceness the instinct of self-preservation\nputs into the grip of a drowning person. To the widow of Mr Verloc the\nrobust anarchist was like a radiant messenger of life. They walked slowly, in step. \"I thought so,\" Mrs Verloc murmured\nfaintly. \"You've read it in my eyes,\" suggested Ossipon with great assurance. \"Yes,\" she breathed out into his inclined ear. \"A love like mine could not be concealed from a woman like you,\" he went\non, trying to detach his mind from material considerations such as the\nbusiness value of the shop, and the amount of money Mr Verloc might have\nleft in the bank. He applied himself to the sentimental side of the\naffair. In his heart of hearts he was a little shocked at his success. Verloc had been a good fellow, and certainly a very decent husband as far\nas one could see. However, Comrade Ossipon was not going to quarrel with\nhis luck for the sake of a dead man. Resolutely he suppressed his\nsympathy for the ghost of Comrade Verloc, and went on. \"I could not conceal it. I was too full of you. I daresay you could not\nhelp seeing it in my eyes. But I could not guess it. You were always so\ndistant. . . .\" \"What else did you expect?\" burst out Mrs Verloc. \"I was a respectable\nwoman--\"\n\nShe paused, then added, as if speaking to herself, in sinister\nresentment: \"Till he made me what I am.\" Ossipon let that pass, and took up his running. \"He never did seem to me\nto be quite worthy of you,\" he began, throwing loyalty to the winds. \"You were worthy of a better fate.\" Mrs Verloc interrupted bitterly:\n\n\"Better fate! He cheated me out of seven years of life.\" \"You seemed to live so happily with him.\" Ossipon tried to exculpate the\nlukewarmness of his past conduct. \"It's that what's made me timid. You\nseemed to love him. I was surprised--and jealous,\" he added. \"Love him!\" Mrs Verloc cried out in a whisper, full of scorn and rage. \"Love him! I was a good wife to him. I am a respectable woman. You\nthought I loved him! You did! Look here, Tom--\"\n\nThe sound of this name thrilled Comrade Ossipon with pride. For his name\nwas Alexander, and he was called Tom by arrangement with the most\nfamiliar of his intimates. It was a name of friendship--of moments of\nexpansion. He had no idea that she had ever heard it used by anybody. It was apparent that she had not only caught it, but had treasured it in\nher memory--perhaps in her heart. \"Look here, Tom! I was a young girl. I was done up. I was tired.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-02, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-05 The user is reading a book]\n<User> I\nhad two people depending on what I could do, and it did seem as if I\ncouldn't do any more. Two people--mother and the boy. He was much more\nmine than mother's. I sat up nights and nights with him on my lap, all\nalone upstairs, when I wasn't more than eight years old myself. And\nthen--He was mine, I tell you. . . . You can't understand that. No man\ncan understand it. What was I to do? There was a young fellow--\"\n\nThe memory of the early romance with the young butcher survived,\ntenacious, like the image of a glimpsed ideal in that heart quailing\nbefore the fear of the gallows and full of revolt against death. \"That was the man I loved then,\" went on the widow of Mr Verloc. \"I\nsuppose he could see it in my eyes too. Five and twenty shillings a\nweek, and his father threatened to kick him out of the business if he\nmade such a fool of himself as to marry a girl with a crippled mother and\na crazy idiot of a boy on her hands. But he would hang about me, till\none evening I found the courage to slam the door in his face. I had to\ndo it. I loved him dearly. Five and twenty shillings a week! There was\nthat other man--a good lodger. What is a girl to do? Could I've gone on\nthe streets? He seemed kind. He wanted me, anyhow. What was I to do\nwith mother and that poor boy? Eh? I said yes. He seemed good-natured,\nhe was freehanded, he had money, he never said anything. Seven\nyears--seven years a good wife to him, the kind, the good, the generous,\nthe--And he loved me. Oh yes. He loved me till I sometimes wished\nmyself--Seven years. Seven years a wife to him. And do you know what he\nwas, that dear friend of yours? Do you know what he was? He was a\ndevil!\" The superhuman vehemence of that whispered statement completely stunned\nComrade Ossipon. Winnie Verloc turning about held him by both arms,\nfacing him under the falling mist in the darkness and solitude of Brett\nPlace, in which all sounds of life seemed lost as if in a triangular well\nof asphalt and bricks, of blind houses and unfeeling stones. \"No; I didn't know,\" he declared, with a sort of flabby stupidity, whose\ncomical aspect was lost upon a woman haunted by the fear of the gallows,\n\"but I do now. I--I understand,\" he floundered on, his mind speculating\nas to what sort of atrocities Verloc could have practised under the\nsleepy, placid appearances of his married estate. It was positively\nawful. \"I understand,\" he repeated, and then by a sudden inspiration\nuttered an--\"Unhappy woman!\" of lofty commiseration instead of the more\nfamiliar \"Poor darling!\" of his usual practice. This was no usual case. He felt conscious of something abnormal going on, while he never lost\nsight of the greatness of the stake. \"Unhappy, brave woman!\" He was glad to have discovered that variation; but he could discover\nnothing else. \"Ah, but he is dead now,\" was the best he could do. And he put a\nremarkable amount of animosity into his guarded exclamation. Mrs Verloc\ncaught at his arm with a sort of frenzy. \"You guessed then he was dead,\" she murmured, as if beside herself. \"You! You guessed what I had to do. Had to!\" There were suggestions of triumph, relief, gratitude in the indefinable\ntone of these words. It engrossed the whole attention of Ossipon to the\ndetriment of mere literal sense. He wondered what was up with her, why\nshe had worked herself into this state of wild excitement. He even began\nto wonder whether the hidden causes of that Greenwich Park affair did not\nlie deep in the unhappy circumstances of the Verlocs' married life. He\nwent so far as to suspect Mr Verloc of having selected that extraordinary\nmanner of committing suicide. By Jove! that would account for the utter\ninanity and wrong-headedness of the thing. No anarchist manifestation\nwas required by the circumstances. Quite the contrary; and Verloc was as\nwell aware of that as any other revolutionist of his standing. What an\nimmense joke if Verloc had simply made fools of the whole of Europe, of\nthe revolutionary world, of the police, of the press, and of the cocksure\nProfessor as well. Indeed, thought Ossipon, in astonishment, it seemed\nalmost certain that he did! Poor beggar! It struck him as very possible\nthat of that household of two it wasn't precisely the man who was the\ndevil. Alexander Ossipon, nicknamed the Doctor, was naturally inclined to think\nindulgently of his men friends. He eyed Mrs Verloc hanging on his arm. Of his women friends he thought in a specially practical way. Why Mrs\nVerloc should exclaim at his knowledge of Mr Verloc's death, which was no\nguess at all, did not disturb him beyond measure. They often talked like\nlunatics. But he was curious to know how she had been informed. The\npapers could tell her nothing beyond the mere fact: the man blown to\npieces in Greenwich Park not having been identified. It was\ninconceivable on any theory that Verloc should have given her an inkling\nof his intention--whatever it was. This problem interested Comrade\nOssipon immensely. He stopped short. They had gone then along the three\nsides of Brett Place, and were near the end of Brett Street again. \"How did you first come to hear of it?\" he asked in a tone he tried to\nrender appropriate to the character of the revelations which had been\nmade to him by the woman at his side. She shook violently for a while before she answered in a listless voice. \"From the police. A chief inspector came, Chief Inspector Heat he said\nhe was. He showed me--\"\n\nMrs Verloc choked. \"Oh, Tom, they had to gather him up with a shovel.\" Her breast heaved with dry sobs. In a moment Ossipon found his tongue. \"The police! Do you mean to say the police came already? That Chief\nInspector Heat himself actually came to tell you.\" \"Yes,\" she confirmed in the same listless tone. \"He came just like this. He came. I didn't know. He showed me a piece of overcoat, and--just\nlike that. Do you know this? he says.\" \"Heat! Heat! And what did he do?\" Mrs Verloc's head dropped. \"Nothing. He did nothing. He went away. The police were on that man's side,\" she murmured tragically. \"Another\none came too.\" \"Another--another inspector, do you mean?\" asked Ossipon, in great\nexcitement, and very much in the tone of a scared child. \"I don't know. He came. He looked like a foreigner. He may have been\none of them Embassy people.\" Comrade Ossipon nearly collapsed under this new shock. \"Embassy! Are you aware what you are saying? What Embassy? What on\nearth do you mean by Embassy?\" \"It's that place in Chesham Square. The people he cursed so. I don't\nknow. What does it matter!\" \"And that fellow, what did he do or say to you?\" \"I don't remember. . . . Nothing . . . . I don't care. Don't ask me,\"\nshe pleaded in a weary voice. \"All right. I won't,\" assented Ossipon tenderly. And he meant it too,\nnot because he was touched by the pathos of the pleading voice, but\nbecause he felt himself losing his footing in the depths of this\ntenebrous affair. Police! Embassy! Phew! For fear of adventuring his\nintelligence into ways where its natural lights might fail to guide it\nsafely he dismissed resolutely all suppositions, surmises, and theories\nout of his mind. He had the woman there, absolutely flinging herself at\nhim, and that was the principal consideration. But after what he had\nheard nothing could astonish him any more. And when Mrs Verloc, as if\nstartled suddenly out of a dream of safety, began to urge upon him wildly\nthe necessity of an immediate flight on the Continent, he did not exclaim\nin the least. He simply said with unaffected regret that there was no\ntrain till the morning, and stood looking thoughtfully at her face,\nveiled in black net, in the light of a gas lamp veiled in a gauze of\nmist. Near him, her black form merged in the night, like a figure half\nchiselled out of a block of black stone.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-05, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-07 The user is reading a book]\n<User> It was impossible to say what\nshe knew, how deep she was involved with policemen and Embassies. But if\nshe wanted to get away, it was not for him to object. He was anxious to\nbe off himself. He felt that the business, the shop so strangely\nfamiliar to chief inspectors and members of foreign Embassies, was not\nthe place for him. That must be dropped. But there was the rest. These\nsavings. The money! \"You must hide me till the morning somewhere,\" she said in a dismayed\nvoice. \"Fact is, my dear, I can't take you where I live. I share the room with\na friend.\" He was somewhat dismayed himself. In the morning the blessed 'tecs will\nbe out in all the stations, no doubt. And if they once got hold of her,\nfor one reason or another she would be lost to him indeed. \"But you must. Don't you care for me at all--at all? What are you\nthinking of?\" She said this violently, but she let her clasped hands fall in\ndiscouragement. There was a silence, while the mist fell, and darkness\nreigned undisturbed over Brett Place. Not a soul, not even the vagabond,\nlawless, and amorous soul of a cat, came near the man and the woman\nfacing each other. \"It would be possible perhaps to find a safe lodging somewhere,\" Ossipon\nspoke at last. \"But the truth is, my dear, I have not enough money to go\nand try with--only a few pence. We revolutionists are not rich.\" He had fifteen shillings in his pocket. He added:\n\n\"And there's the journey before us, too--first thing in the morning at\nthat.\" She did not move, made no sound, and Comrade Ossipon's heart sank a\nlittle. Apparently she had no suggestion to offer. Suddenly she\nclutched at her breast, as if she had felt a sharp pain there. \"But I have,\" she gasped. \"I have the money. I have enough money. Tom! Let us go from here.\" \"How much have you got?\" he inquired, without stirring to her tug; for he\nwas a cautious man. \"I have the money, I tell you. All the money.\" \"What do you mean by it? All the money there was in the bank, or what?\" he asked incredulously, but ready not to be surprised at anything in the\nway of luck. \"Yes, yes!\" she said nervously. \"All there was. I've it all.\" \"How on earth did you manage to get hold of it already?\" he marvelled. \"He gave it to me,\" she murmured, suddenly subdued and trembling. Comrade Ossipon put down his rising surprise with a firm hand. \"Why, then--we are saved,\" he uttered slowly. She leaned forward, and sank against his breast. He welcomed her there. She had all the money. Her hat was in the way of very marked effusion;\nher veil too. He was adequate in his manifestations, but no more. She\nreceived them without resistance and without abandonment, passively, as\nif only half-sensible. She freed herself from his lax embraces without\ndifficulty. \"You will save me, Tom,\" she broke out, recoiling, but still keeping her\nhold on him by the two lapels of his damp coat. \"Save me. Hide me. Don't let them have me. You must kill me first. I couldn't do it\nmyself--I couldn't, I couldn't--not even for what I am afraid of.\" She was confoundedly bizarre, he thought. She was beginning to inspire\nhim with an indefinite uneasiness. He said surlily, for he was busy with\nimportant thoughts:\n\n\"What the devil _are_ you afraid of?\" \"Haven't you guessed what I was driven to do!\" cried the woman. Distracted by the vividness of her dreadful apprehensions, her head\nringing with forceful words, that kept the horror of her position before\nher mind, she had imagined her incoherence to be clearness itself. She\nhad no conscience of how little she had audibly said in the disjointed\nphrases completed only in her thought. She had felt the relief of a full\nconfession, and she gave a special meaning to every sentence spoken by\nComrade Ossipon, whose knowledge did not in the least resemble her own. \"Haven't you guessed what I was driven to do!\" Her voice fell. \"You\nneedn't be long in guessing then what I am afraid of,\" she continued, in\na bitter and sombre murmur. \"I won't have it. I won't. I won't. I\nwon't. You must promise to kill me first!\" She shook the lapels of his\ncoat. \"It must never be!\" He assured her curtly that no promises on his part were necessary, but he\ntook good care not to contradict her in set terms, because he had had\nmuch to do with excited women, and he was inclined in general to let his\nexperience guide his conduct in preference to applying his sagacity to\neach special case. His sagacity in this case was busy in other\ndirections. Women's words fell into water, but the shortcomings of\ntime-tables remained. The insular nature of Great Britain obtruded\nitself upon his notice in an odious form. \"Might just as well be put\nunder lock and key every night,\" he thought irritably, as nonplussed as\nthough he had a wall to scale with the woman on his back. Suddenly he\nslapped his forehead. He had by dint of cudgelling his brains just\nthought of the Southampton--St Malo service. The boat left about\nmidnight. There was a train at 10.30. He became cheery and ready to\nact. \"From Waterloo. Plenty of time. We are all right after all. . . . What's the matter now? This isn't the way,\" he protested. Mrs Verloc, having hooked her arm into his, was trying to drag him into\nBrett Street again. \"I've forgotten to shut the shop door as I went out,\" she whispered,\nterribly agitated. The shop and all that was in it had ceased to interest Comrade Ossipon. He knew how to limit his desires. He was on the point of saying \"What of\nthat? Let it be,\" but he refrained. He disliked argument about trifles. He even mended his pace considerably on the thought that she might have\nleft the money in the drawer. But his willingness lagged behind her\nfeverish impatience. The shop seemed to be quite dark at first. The door stood ajar. Mrs\nVerloc, leaning against the front, gasped out:\n\n\"Nobody has been in. Look! The light--the light in the parlour.\" Ossipon, stretching his head forward, saw a faint gleam in the darkness\nof the shop. \"There is,\" he said. \"I forgot it.\" Mrs Verloc's voice came from behind her veil faintly. And\nas he stood waiting for her to enter first, she said louder: \"Go in and\nput it out--or I'll go mad.\" He made no immediate objection to this proposal, so strangely motived. \"Where's all that money?\" he asked. \"On me! Go, Tom. Quick! Put it out. . . . Go in!\" she cried, seizing\nhim by both shoulders from behind. Not prepared for a display of physical force, Comrade Ossipon stumbled\nfar into the shop before her push. He was astonished at the strength of\nthe woman and scandalised by her proceedings. But he did not retrace his\nsteps in order to remonstrate with her severely in the street. He was\nbeginning to be disagreeably impressed by her fantastic behaviour. Moreover, this or never was the time to humour the woman. Comrade\nOssipon avoided easily the end of the counter, and approached calmly the\nglazed door of the parlour. The curtain over the panes being drawn back\na little he, by a very natural impulse, looked in, just as he made ready\nto turn the handle. He looked in without a thought, without intention,\nwithout curiosity of any sort. He looked in because he could not help\nlooking in. He looked in, and discovered Mr Verloc reposing quietly on\nthe sofa. A yell coming from the innermost depths of his chest died out unheard and\ntransformed into a sort of greasy, sickly taste on his lips. At the same\ntime the mental personality of Comrade Ossipon executed a frantic leap\nbackward. But his body, left thus without intellectual guidance, held on\nto the door handle with the unthinking force of an instinct. The robust\nanarchist did not even totter. And he stared, his face close to the\nglass, his eyes protruding out of his head.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-07, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-09 The user is reading a book]\n<User> He would have given anything\nto get away, but his returning reason informed him that it would not do\nto let go the door handle. What was it--madness, a nightmare, or a trap\ninto which he had been decoyed with fiendish artfulness? Why--what for? He did not know. Without any sense of guilt in his breast, in the full\npeace of his conscience as far as these people were concerned, the idea\nthat he would be murdered for mysterious reasons by the couple Verloc\npassed not so much across his mind as across the pit of his stomach, and\nwent out, leaving behind a trail of sickly faintness--an indisposition. Comrade Ossipon did not feel very well in a very special way for a\nmoment--a long moment. And he stared. Mr Verloc lay very still\nmeanwhile, simulating sleep for reasons of his own, while that savage\nwoman of his was guarding the door--invisible and silent in the dark and\ndeserted street. Was all this a some sort of terrifying arrangement\ninvented by the police for his especial benefit? His modesty shrank from\nthat explanation. But the true sense of the scene he was beholding came to Ossipon through\nthe contemplation of the hat. It seemed an extraordinary thing, an\nominous object, a sign. Black, and rim upward, it lay on the floor\nbefore the couch as if prepared to receive the contributions of pence\nfrom people who would come presently to behold Mr Verloc in the fullness\nof his domestic ease reposing on a sofa. From the hat the eyes of the\nrobust anarchist wandered to the displaced table, gazed at the broken\ndish for a time, received a kind of optical shock from observing a white\ngleam under the imperfectly closed eyelids of the man on the couch. Mr\nVerloc did not seem so much asleep now as lying down with a bent head and\nlooking insistently at his left breast. And when Comrade Ossipon had\nmade out the handle of the knife he turned away from the glazed door, and\nretched violently. The crash of the street door flung to made his very soul leap in a panic. This house with its harmless tenant could still be made a trap of--a trap\nof a terrible kind. Comrade Ossipon had no settled conception now of\nwhat was happening to him. Catching his thigh against the end of the\ncounter, he spun round, staggered with a cry of pain, felt in the\ndistracting clatter of the bell his arms pinned to his side by a\nconvulsive hug, while the cold lips of a woman moved creepily on his very\near to form the words:\n\n\"Policeman! He has seen me!\" He ceased to struggle; she never let him go. Her hands had locked\nthemselves with an inseparable twist of fingers on his robust back. While the footsteps approached, they breathed quickly, breast to breast,\nwith hard, laboured breaths, as if theirs had been the attitude of a\ndeadly struggle, while, in fact, it was the attitude of deadly fear. And\nthe time was long. The constable on the beat had in truth seen something of Mrs Verloc; only\ncoming from the lighted thoroughfare at the other end of Brett Street,\nshe had been no more to him than a flutter in the darkness. And he was\nnot even quite sure that there had been a flutter. He had no reason to\nhurry up. On coming abreast of the shop he observed that it had been\nclosed early. There was nothing very unusual in that. The men on duty\nhad special instructions about that shop: what went on about there was\nnot to be meddled with unless absolutely disorderly, but any observations\nmade were to be reported. There were no observations to make; but from a\nsense of duty and for the peace of his conscience, owing also to that\ndoubtful flutter of the darkness, the constable crossed the road, and\ntried the door. The spring latch, whose key was reposing for ever off\nduty in the late Mr Verloc's waistcoat pocket, held as well as usual. While the conscientious officer was shaking the handle, Ossipon felt the\ncold lips of the woman stirring again creepily against his very ear:\n\n\"If he comes in kill me--kill me, Tom.\" The constable moved away, flashing as he passed the light of his dark\nlantern, merely for form's sake, at the shop window. For a moment longer\nthe man and the woman inside stood motionless, panting, breast to breast;\nthen her fingers came unlocked, her arms fell by her side slowly. Ossipon leaned against the counter. The robust anarchist wanted support\nbadly. This was awful. He was almost too disgusted for speech. Yet he\nmanaged to utter a plaintive thought, showing at least that he realised\nhis position. \"Only a couple of minutes later and you'd have made me blunder against\nthe fellow poking about here with his damned dark lantern.\" The widow of Mr Verloc, motionless in the middle of the shop, said\ninsistently:\n\n\"Go in and put that light out, Tom. It will drive me crazy.\" She saw vaguely his vehement gesture of refusal. Nothing in the world\nwould have induced Ossipon to go into the parlour. He was not\nsuperstitious, but there was too much blood on the floor; a beastly pool\nof it all round the hat. He judged he had been already far too near that\ncorpse for his peace of mind--for the safety of his neck, perhaps! \"At the meter then! There. Look. In that corner.\" The robust form of Comrade Ossipon, striding brusque and shadowy across\nthe shop, squatted in a corner obediently; but this obedience was without\ngrace. He fumbled nervously--and suddenly in the sound of a muttered\ncurse the light behind the glazed door flicked out to a gasping,\nhysterical sigh of a woman. Night, the inevitable reward of men's\nfaithful labours on this earth, night had fallen on Mr Verloc, the tried\nrevolutionist--\"one of the old lot\"--the humble guardian of society; the\ninvaluable Secret Agent [delta] of Baron Stott-Wartenheim's despatches; a\nservant of law and order, faithful, trusted, accurate, admirable, with\nperhaps one single amiable weakness: the idealistic belief in being loved\nfor himself. Ossipon groped his way back through the stuffy atmosphere, as black as\nink now, to the counter. The voice of Mrs Verloc, standing in the middle\nof the shop, vibrated after him in that blackness with a desperate\nprotest. \"I will not be hanged, Tom. I will not--\"\n\nShe broke off. Ossipon from the counter issued a warning: \"Don't shout\nlike this,\" then seemed to reflect profoundly. \"You did this thing quite\nby yourself?\" he inquired in a hollow voice, but with an appearance of\nmasterful calmness which filled Mrs Verloc's heart with grateful\nconfidence in his protecting strength. \"Yes,\" she whispered, invisible. \"I wouldn't have believed it possible,\" he muttered. \"Nobody would.\" She heard him move about and the snapping of a lock in the parlour door. Comrade Ossipon had turned the key on Mr Verloc's repose; and this he did\nnot from reverence for its eternal nature or any other obscurely\nsentimental consideration, but for the precise reason that he was not at\nall sure that there was not someone else hiding somewhere in the house. He did not believe the woman, or rather he was incapable by now of\njudging what could be true, possible, or even probable in this astounding\nuniverse. He was terrified out of all capacity for belief or disbelief\nin regard of this extraordinary affair, which began with police\ninspectors and Embassies and would end goodness knows where--on the\nscaffold for someone. He was terrified at the thought that he could not\nprove the use he made of his time ever since seven o'clock, for he had\nbeen skulking about Brett Street. He was terrified at this savage woman\nwho had brought him in there, and would probably saddle him with\ncomplicity, at least if he were not careful. He was terrified at the\nrapidity with which he had been involved in such dangers--decoyed into\nit. It was some twenty minutes since he had met her--not more. The voice of Mrs Verloc rose subdued, pleading piteously: \"Don't let them\nhang me, Tom! Take me out of the country. I'll work for you. I'll\nslave for you. I'll love you. I've no one in the world. . . . Who\nwould look at me if you don't!\"\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-09, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-11 The user is reading a book]\n<User> She ceased for a moment; then in the\ndepths of the loneliness made round her by an insignificant thread of\nblood trickling off the handle of a knife, she found a dreadful\ninspiration to her--who had been the respectable girl of the Belgravian\nmansion, the loyal, respectable wife of Mr Verloc. \"I won't ask you to\nmarry me,\" she breathed out in shame-faced accents. She moved a step forward in the darkness. He was terrified at her. He\nwould not have been surprised if she had suddenly produced another knife\ndestined for his breast. He certainly would have made no resistance. He\nhad really not enough fortitude in him just then to tell her to keep\nback. But he inquired in a cavernous, strange tone: \"Was he asleep?\" \"No,\" she cried, and went on rapidly. \"He wasn't. Not he. He had been\ntelling me that nothing could touch him. After taking the boy away from\nunder my very eyes to kill him--the loving, innocent, harmless lad. My\nown, I tell you. He was lying on the couch quite easy--after killing the\nboy--my boy. I would have gone on the streets to get out of his sight. And he says to me like this: 'Come here,' after telling me I had helped\nto kill the boy. You hear, Tom? He says like this: 'Come here,' after\ntaking my very heart out of me along with the boy to smash in the dirt.\" She ceased, then dreamily repeated twice: \"Blood and dirt. Blood and\ndirt.\" A great light broke upon Comrade Ossipon. It was that\nhalf-witted lad then who had perished in the park. And the fooling of\neverybody all round appeared more complete than ever--colossal. He\nexclaimed scientifically, in the extremity of his astonishment: \"The\ndegenerate--by heavens!\" \"Come here.\" The voice of Mrs Verloc rose again. \"What did he think I\nwas made of? Tell me, Tom. Come here! Me! Like this! I had been\nlooking at the knife, and I thought I would come then if he wanted me so\nmuch. Oh yes! I came--for the last time. . . . With the knife.\" He was excessively terrified at her--the sister of the degenerate--a\ndegenerate herself of a murdering type . . . or else of the lying type. Comrade Ossipon might have been said to be terrified scientifically in\naddition to all other kinds of fear. It was an immeasurable and\ncomposite funk, which from its very excess gave him in the dark a false\nappearance of calm and thoughtful deliberation. For he moved and spoke\nwith difficulty, being as if half frozen in his will and mind--and no one\ncould see his ghastly face. He felt half dead. He leaped a foot high. Unexpectedly Mrs Verloc had desecrated the\nunbroken reserved decency of her home by a shrill and terrible shriek. \"Help, Tom! Save me. I won't be hanged!\" He rushed forward, groping for her mouth with a silencing hand, and the\nshriek died out. But in his rush he had knocked her over. He felt her\nnow clinging round his legs, and his terror reached its culminating\npoint, became a sort of intoxication, entertained delusions, acquired the\ncharacteristics of delirium tremens. He positively saw snakes now. He\nsaw the woman twined round him like a snake, not to be shaken off. She\nwas not deadly. She was death itself--the companion of life. Mrs Verloc, as if relieved by the outburst, was very far from behaving\nnoisily now. She was pitiful. \"Tom, you can't throw me off now,\" she murmured from the floor. \"Not\nunless you crush my head under your heel. I won't leave you.\" \"Get up,\" said Ossipon. His face was so pale as to be quite visible in the profound black\ndarkness of the shop; while Mrs Verloc, veiled, had no face, almost no\ndiscernible form. The trembling of something small and white, a flower\nin her hat, marked her place, her movements. It rose in the blackness. She had got up from the floor, and Ossipon\nregretted not having run out at once into the street. But he perceived\neasily that it would not do. It would not do. She would run after him. She would pursue him shrieking till she sent every policeman within\nhearing in chase. And then goodness only knew what she would say of him. He was so frightened that for a moment the insane notion of strangling\nher in the dark passed through his mind. And he became more frightened\nthan ever! She had him! He saw himself living in abject terror in some\nobscure hamlet in Spain or Italy; till some fine morning they found him\ndead too, with a knife in his breast--like Mr Verloc. He sighed deeply. He dared not move. And Mrs Verloc waited in silence the good pleasure of\nher saviour, deriving comfort from his reflective silence. Suddenly he spoke up in an almost natural voice. His reflections had\ncome to an end. \"Let's get out, or we will lose the train.\" \"Where are we going to, Tom?\" she asked timidly. Mrs Verloc was no\nlonger a free woman. \"Let's get to Paris first, the best way we can. . . . Go out first, and\nsee if the way's clear.\" She obeyed. Her voice came subdued through the cautiously opened door. \"It's all right.\" Ossipon came out. Notwithstanding his endeavours to be gentle, the\ncracked bell clattered behind the closed door in the empty shop, as if\ntrying in vain to warn the reposing Mr Verloc of the final departure of\nhis wife--accompanied by his friend. In the hansom they presently picked up, the robust anarchist became\nexplanatory. He was still awfully pale, with eyes that seemed to have\nsunk a whole half-inch into his tense face. But he seemed to have\nthought of everything with extraordinary method. \"When we arrive,\" he discoursed in a queer, monotonous tone, \"you must go\ninto the station ahead of me, as if we did not know each other. I will\ntake the tickets, and slip in yours into your hand as I pass you. Then\nyou will go into the first-class ladies' waiting-room, and sit there till\nten minutes before the train starts. Then you come out. I will be\noutside. You go in first on the platform, as if you did not know me. There may be eyes watching there that know what's what. Alone you are\nonly a woman going off by train. I am known. With me, you may be\nguessed at as Mrs Verloc running away. Do you understand, my dear?\" he\nadded, with an effort. \"Yes,\" said Mrs Verloc, sitting there against him in the hansom all rigid\nwith the dread of the gallows and the fear of death. \"Yes, Tom.\" And\nshe added to herself, like an awful refrain: \"The drop given was fourteen\nfeet.\" Ossipon, not looking at her, and with a face like a fresh plaster cast of\nhimself after a wasting illness, said: \"By-the-by, I ought to have the\nmoney for the tickets now.\" Mrs Verloc, undoing some hooks of her bodice, while she went on staring\nahead beyond the splashboard, handed over to him the new pigskin\npocket-book. He received it without a word, and seemed to plunge it deep\nsomewhere into his very breast. Then he slapped his coat on the outside. All this was done without the exchange of a single glance; they were like\ntwo people looking out for the first sight of a desired goal. It was not\ntill the hansom swung round a corner and towards the bridge that Ossipon\nopened his lips again. \"Do you know how much money there is in that thing?\" he asked, as if\naddressing slowly some hobgoblin sitting between the ears of the horse. \"No,\" said Mrs Verloc. \"He gave it to me. I didn't count. I thought\nnothing of it at the time. Afterwards--\"\n\nShe moved her right hand a little. It was so expressive that little\nmovement of that right hand which had struck the deadly blow into a man's\nheart less than an hour before that Ossipon could not repress a shudder. He exaggerated it then purposely, and muttered:\n\n\"I am cold. I got chilled through.\" Mrs Verloc looked straight ahead at the perspective of her escape. Now\nand then, like a sable streamer blown across a road, the words \"The drop\ngiven was fourteen feet\" got in the way of her tense stare.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-11, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-12 The user is reading a book]\n<User> Through her\nblack veil the whites of her big eyes gleamed lustrously like the eyes of\na masked woman. Ossipon's rigidity had something business-like, a queer official\nexpression. He was heard again all of a sudden, as though he had\nreleased a catch in order to speak. \"Look here! Do you know whether your--whether he kept his account at the\nbank in his own name or in some other name.\" Mrs Verloc turned upon him her masked face and the big white gleam of her\neyes. \"Other name?\" she said thoughtfully. \"Be exact in what you say,\" Ossipon lectured in the swift motion of the\nhansom. \"It's extremely important. I will explain to you. The bank has\nthe numbers of these notes. If they were paid to him in his own name,\nthen when his--his death becomes known, the notes may serve to track us\nsince we have no other money. You have no other money on you?\" She shook her head negatively. \"None whatever?\" he insisted. \"A few coppers.\" \"It would be dangerous in that case. The money would have then to be\ndealt specially with. Very specially. We'd have perhaps to lose more\nthan half the amount in order to get these notes changed in a certain\nsafe place I know of in Paris. In the other case I mean if he had his\naccount and got paid out under some other name--say Smith, for\ninstance--the money is perfectly safe to use. You understand? The bank\nhas no means of knowing that Mr Verloc and, say, Smith are one and the\nsame person. Do you see how important it is that you should make no\nmistake in answering me? Can you answer that query at all? Perhaps not. Eh?\" She said composedly:\n\n\"I remember now! He didn't bank in his own name. He told me once that\nit was on deposit in the name of Prozor.\" \"You are sure?\" \"Certain.\" \"You don't think the bank had any knowledge of his real name? Or anybody\nin the bank or--\"\n\nShe shrugged her shoulders. \"How can I know? Is it likely, Tom? \"No. I suppose it's not likely. It would have been more comfortable to\nknow. . . . Here we are. Get out first, and walk straight in. Move\nsmartly.\" He remained behind, and paid the cabman out of his own loose silver. The\nprogramme traced by his minute foresight was carried out. When Mrs\nVerloc, with her ticket for St Malo in her hand, entered the ladies'\nwaiting-room, Comrade Ossipon walked into the bar, and in seven minutes\nabsorbed three goes of hot brandy and water. \"Trying to drive out a cold,\" he explained to the barmaid, with a\nfriendly nod and a grimacing smile. Then he came out, bringing out from\nthat festive interlude the face of a man who had drunk at the very\nFountain of Sorrow. He raised his eyes to the clock. It was time. He\nwaited. Punctual, Mrs Verloc came out, with her veil down, and all black--black\nas commonplace death itself, crowned with a few cheap and pale flowers. She passed close to a little group of men who were laughing, but whose\nlaughter could have been struck dead by a single word. Her walk was\nindolent, but her back was straight, and Comrade Ossipon looked after it\nin terror before making a start himself. The train was drawn up, with hardly anybody about its row of open doors. Owing to the time of the year and to the abominable weather there were\nhardly any passengers. Mrs Verloc walked slowly along the line of empty\ncompartments till Ossipon touched her elbow from behind. \"In here.\" She got in, and he remained on the platform looking about. She bent\nforward, and in a whisper:\n\n\"What is it, Tom? Is there any danger? Wait a moment. There's the\nguard.\" She saw him accost the man in uniform. They talked for a while. She\nheard the guard say \"Very well, sir,\" and saw him touch his cap. Then\nOssipon came back, saying: \"I told him not to let anybody get into our\ncompartment.\" She was leaning forward on her seat. \"You think of everything. . . . You'll get me off, Tom?\" she asked in a gust of anguish, lifting her veil\nbrusquely to look at her saviour. She had uncovered a face like adamant. And out of this face the eyes\nlooked on, big, dry, enlarged, lightless, burnt out like two black holes\nin the white, shining globes. \"There is no danger,\" he said, gazing into them with an earnestness\nalmost rapt, which to Mrs Verloc, flying from the gallows, seemed to be\nfull of force and tenderness. This devotion deeply moved her--and the\nadamantine face lost the stern rigidity of its terror. Comrade Ossipon\ngazed at it as no lover ever gazed at his mistress's face. Alexander\nOssipon, anarchist, nicknamed the Doctor, author of a medical (and\nimproper) pamphlet, late lecturer on the social aspects of hygiene to\nworking men's clubs, was free from the trammels of conventional\nmorality--but he submitted to the rule of science. He was scientific,\nand he gazed scientifically at that woman, the sister of a degenerate, a\ndegenerate herself--of a murdering type. He gazed at her, and invoked\nLombroso, as an Italian peasant recommends himself to his favourite\nsaint. He gazed scientifically. He gazed at her cheeks, at her nose, at\nher eyes, at her ears. . . . Bad! . . . Fatal! Mrs Verloc's pale lips\nparting, slightly relaxed under his passionately attentive gaze, he gazed\nalso at her teeth. . . . Not a doubt remained . . . a murdering type. . . . If Comrade Ossipon did not recommend his terrified soul to Lombroso, it\nwas only because on scientific grounds he could not believe that he\ncarried about him such a thing as a soul. But he had in him the\nscientific spirit, which moved him to testify on the platform of a\nrailway station in nervous jerky phrases. \"He was an extraordinary lad, that brother of yours. Most interesting to\nstudy. A perfect type in a way. Perfect!\" He spoke scientifically in his secret fear. And Mrs Verloc, hearing\nthese words of commendation vouchsafed to her beloved dead, swayed\nforward with a flicker of light in her sombre eyes, like a ray of\nsunshine heralding a tempest of rain. \"He was that indeed,\" she whispered softly, with quivering lips. \"You\ntook a lot of notice of him, Tom. I loved you for it.\" \"It's almost incredible the resemblance there was between you two,\"\npursued Ossipon, giving a voice to his abiding dread, and trying to\nconceal his nervous, sickening impatience for the train to start. \"Yes;\nhe resembled you.\" These words were not especially touching or sympathetic. But the fact of\nthat resemblance insisted upon was enough in itself to act upon her\nemotions powerfully. With a little faint cry, and throwing her arms out,\nMrs Verloc burst into tears at last. Ossipon entered the carriage, hastily closed the door and looked out to\nsee the time by the station clock. Eight minutes more. For the first\nthree of these Mrs Verloc wept violently and helplessly without pause or\ninterruption. Then she recovered somewhat, and sobbed gently in an\nabundant fall of tears. She tried to talk to her saviour, to the man who\nwas the messenger of life. \"Oh, Tom! How could I fear to die after he was taken away from me so\ncruelly! How could I! How could I be such a coward!\" She lamented aloud her love of life, that life without grace or charm,\nand almost without decency, but of an exalted faithfulness of purpose,\neven unto murder. And, as often happens in the lament of poor humanity,\nrich in suffering but indigent in words, the truth--the very cry of\ntruth--was found in a worn and artificial shape picked up somewhere among\nthe phrases of sham sentiment. \"How could I be so afraid of death! Tom, I tried. But I am afraid. I\ntried to do away with myself. And I couldn't. Am I hard? I suppose the\ncup of horrors was not full enough for such as me. Then when you came. . . . \" She paused. Then in a gust of confidence and gratitude, \"I will live all\nmy days for you, Tom!\" she sobbed out.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-12, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far.", "[Event happened on 2024-01-15 The user is reading a book]\n<User> \"Go over into the other corner of the carriage, away from the platform,\"\nsaid Ossipon solicitously. She let her saviour settle her comfortably,\nand he watched the coming on of another crisis of weeping, still more\nviolent than the first. He watched the symptoms with a sort of medical\nair, as if counting seconds. He heard the guard's whistle at last. An\ninvoluntary contraction of the upper lip bared his teeth with all the\naspect of savage resolution as he felt the train beginning to move. Mrs\nVerloc heard and felt nothing, and Ossipon, her saviour, stood still. He\nfelt the train roll quicker, rumbling heavily to the sound of the woman's\nloud sobs, and then crossing the carriage in two long strides he opened\nthe door deliberately, and leaped out. He had leaped out at the very end of the platform; and such was his\ndetermination in sticking to his desperate plan that he managed by a sort\nof miracle, performed almost in the air, to slam to the door of the\ncarriage. Only then did he find himself rolling head over heels like a\nshot rabbit. He was bruised, shaken, pale as death, and out of breath\nwhen he got up. But he was calm, and perfectly able to meet the excited\ncrowd of railway men who had gathered round him in a moment. He\nexplained, in gentle and convincing tones, that his wife had started at a\nmoment's notice for Brittany to her dying mother; that, of course, she\nwas greatly up-set, and he considerably concerned at her state; that he\nwas trying to cheer her up, and had absolutely failed to notice at first\nthat the train was moving out. To the general exclamation, \"Why didn't\nyou go on to Southampton, then, sir?\" he objected the inexperience of a\nyoung sister-in-law left alone in the house with three small children,\nand her alarm at his absence, the telegraph offices being closed. He had\nacted on impulse. \"But I don't think I'll ever try that again,\" he\nconcluded; smiled all round; distributed some small change, and marched\nwithout a limp out of the station. Outside, Comrade Ossipon, flush of safe banknotes as never before in his\nlife, refused the offer of a cab. \"I can walk,\" he said, with a little friendly laugh to the civil driver. He could walk. He walked. He crossed the bridge. Later on the towers\nof the Abbey saw in their massive immobility the yellow bush of his hair\npassing under the lamps. The lights of Victoria saw him too, and Sloane\nSquare, and the railings of the park. And Comrade Ossipon once more\nfound himself on a bridge. The river, a sinister marvel of still shadows\nand flowing gleams mingling below in a black silence, arrested his\nattention. He stood looking over the parapet for a long time. The clock\ntower boomed a brazen blast above his drooping head. He looked up at the\ndial. . . . Half-past twelve of a wild night in the Channel. And again Comrade Ossipon walked. His robust form was seen that night in\ndistant parts of the enormous town slumbering monstrously on a carpet of\nmud under a veil of raw mist. It was seen crossing the streets without\nlife and sound, or diminishing in the interminable straight perspectives\nof shadowy houses bordering empty roadways lined by strings of gas lamps. He walked through Squares, Places, Ovals, Commons, through monotonous\nstreets with unknown names where the dust of humanity settles inert and\nhopeless out of the stream of life. He walked. And suddenly turning\ninto a strip of a front garden with a mangy grass plot, he let himself\ninto a small grimy house with a latch-key he took out of his pocket. He threw himself down on his bed all dressed, and lay still for a whole\nquarter of an hour. Then he sat up suddenly, drawing up his knees, and\nclasping his legs. The first dawn found him open-eyed, in that same\nposture. This man who could walk so long, so far, so aimlessly, without\nshowing a sign of fatigue, could also remain sitting still for hours\nwithout stirring a limb or an eyelid. But when the late sun sent its\nrays into the room he unclasped his hands, and fell back on the pillow. His eyes stared at the ceiling. And suddenly they closed. Comrade\nOssipon slept in the sunlight.\n\n<System> Please remember what the user reads on 2024-01-15, save the details within the book, and retain a summary of the book the user has read so far."]
[{"question": "Summarize the content of the book I read from 2024-01-01 to 2024-01-15", "answer": "Winnie, Verloc, Stevie, Ossipon, Chief Inspector Heat, Brett Street, parlor, shop, Thames River, gallows, Greenwich, embassy, train station, hansom cab, murder, suicide, drowning, escape, money, savings, mistress, butcher's boy, scientific evidence, Lombroso, degenerate, self-preservation, betrayal, clock, platform, strangers in silk hats, prison yard, bomb, police, sexual manipulation, broken bond, confession, misunderstanding, fear, desperation, abandonment, death, murderer's guilt, psychological torment, time distortion, decision to flee, failed escape, betrayal for money, train jump, Ossipon's apartment"}]