” She said. They found a cosy little table in the tea-rooms, and everything was delicious. Her back arched and she felt herself instinctively sinking into him. When, by slow and toilsome efforts, he had arrived midway, something obstructed his further progress. Burn your palette and your easel. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness.
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