“Dear friend,” she said, “remember that you are speaking to one who has failed in the only serious object which she has ever sought to accomplish. It's gin—a liquor you used to like. The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. She washed her face with unwonted elaboration before she went to bed. There is a place—This isn’t the place. It was still profoundly dark; but the wind, which had begun to blow with some violence, chased the clouds rapidly across the heavens, and dispersed the vapours hanging nearer the earth. “Ass!” he went on, still warming.
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