” He fancied that she was yielding, but her eyes fell once more upon that fatal envelope, and her tone when she spoke was colder than ever. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. Spurling. I haven't forgotten her previous history. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. I would sooner see you in a ’bus again. .
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