She almost sprang to her feet. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. “Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said. Listen to me, Winifred. 'Slife! you are wonderfully altered. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. . He was an odd one, especially for a young man. It was cheating, pitiful cheating. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow.
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