She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. ” “Many other people,” she remarked, “have made the same mistake.
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