I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. She was saying good-bye to childhood and home, and her making; she was going out into the great, multitudinous world; this time there would be no returning. But … he must want to live in order that the inclination to repeat this incident may not recur. . . ” “She’ll meet somebody one of these days—walking about like that. “Well, if I find your conversation interesting I shall listen. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Very dark, like yours, ma’am. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. It was his turn to express astonishment. 1 through 1. She remembered that she had not gone to bed until two o'clock in the morning.
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