‘I have Joan to tell me how much I look like Mary. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. You have all the instinctive dexterity of parasites.
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