Something as yet unformulated within her kept her estranged from all these practical aspects of her beliefs. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. Happened to be at the Chariot, you know, with Trodger, and it’s review day. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended.
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