She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. “I think we are growing sensible,” he said. Her eyes noted it mercilessly. But we cannot discuss this here. But … he must want to live in order that the inclination to repeat this incident may not recur.
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