” He contradicted himself by plunging into an exposition of motifs. She was pensive and thoughtful. When I think of it—” “But these are things I want to tell you now!” “I made a little song of it. It was not a hopeful looking group. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her.
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