I guess those books are okay because they are fiction. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. Once before—but that had been different. He pulled down a chair to her left. He, who had faced the gale, would have been instantly stifled. As he proceeded, other painful reminiscences were aroused. Laughed at me, then. She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror.
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