It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. ‘If you had met her, you’d understand. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. I wondered what you could be doing and what might be happening to you. After a while one began to talk. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject.
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