I could not love you else. Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast. She had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. .
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