” With a little crash the pistol fell from her shaking fingers. Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. I shall still believe in you. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. In the second, she was wretchedly poor, and assailed by temptations of which you can form no idea. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months.
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