You’re splendid stuff, you know, but you’ve got nothing ready to sell. She rose from her chair, and began walking up and down the room restlessly. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. But it’s as you say. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. “It’s fine, Michelle. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination.
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