Whenever she came upon the obliterated word and paused, her father would say: "Faith. It is Thérèse. The kind of man who isn’t content with his science, and writes articles in the monthly reviews. If he was asleep, then she much regretted that she must wake him up. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat.
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