She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. But I'll not believe it of you. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. Whenever you grow impatient with her, remember the folly of her father. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle.
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