“Why?” “I still love you. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. “You are too good for me,” she said in a low voice. “I will make all things possible. I'm ashamed to say that I was too much terrified to scream out—but ran and hid myself. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. ‘Oh, famous. Now if she sent fifteen pounds the suggestion that she had spent a five-pound note in the meanwhile would be irresistible.
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