She said it audibly, having learned long since that an audible prayer was a concentrated one. “Listen,” she said. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. You fell in at once with her quixotic and damnable scheme of foisting her reputation and her follies upon your shoulders whilst she marries a rich man and commences all over again a life of selfish pleasure.
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