She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. Before you have lived—” He became darkly prophetic. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. And he began also at times to wake at night and think about her.
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