“My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. That might happen on her birthday—in August. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. That knot also would be cut. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months.
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