"Precisely. ” She spoke rather quickly, because she found her father’s question the most awkward she had ever had to answer in her life. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. And they admired Kent sedulously from the windows. ‘You can’t prove nothing. “He has a stubbly yellow moustache, weak eyes, and great horrid hands. I sha'n't cry any more. I did not want anything made smooth and easy for me. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon.
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