” She said. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt her. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. That would come later. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict. "I mean what I say," replied Jonathan.
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