The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. A sense of impending disaster was upon him. ’ Total bullshit, if you ask me. She had, poor inexperienced fool, given herself away. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. And also I have this Prudence. She herself had cut the slender tie that had bound them. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. She is setting out for Hartford, Connecticut.
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