" There was no danger in admitting this fact. Bullding repeated, rather struck with the phrase. She had been built for canvas and oil-lamps, and this new thingumajig that kept her nose snoring at eight knots when normally she was able to boil along at ten, and these unblinking things they called lamps (that neither smoked nor smelled), irked and threatened to ruin her temper. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter. Doubts began to rise up all about her, plucking at her confidence. I had left Paris. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. ‘Don’t be so absurd. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. " "Perhaps that was it.
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