He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. Abruptly would come the end. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. ” Anna stood up. “What a hypocrite you are. .
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