The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. I don’t believe in the faults. It had been a trying day. It is what I have wanted, what I have meant all along. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn.
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