“Mr. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. He’s nice. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger. ‘Come on, Hilary. They were things I had meant very much to talk to you about, so that I went home vexed and disappointed, and only relieved myself a little by writing a few verses. ’ She shook her head. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. Thus, you see, I've never hesitated and never shall hesitate to expose my life where anything is to be gained.
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