Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

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Why he woke so early on that February morning Furze could not say. No sound had startled him. Gloom still curtained the windows; he was conscious of both a nearness and a loneliness, something that called.

He lit a candle and dressed. He went out on his socked feet into the passage, feeling that other presence in the house like a sacred flame burning. Woman but not wife! And the careless breath of the world, the gigglings, the irreverences.

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