Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. It was clear she wanted to get away from home, that she was impatient to get away from home. Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting. But be patient, I am your fast friend.
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