The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. “No, don’t interrupt me. Anna was singing as she used to sing. Oh, I’ve loved love, dear! I’ve loved love and you, and the glory of you; and the great time is over, and I have to go carefully and bear children, and—take care of my hair—and when I am done with that I shall be an old woman.
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