She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. “A volatile temperament—yes, a volatile temperament,” Mr. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. Nice goings on.
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