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Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. “Do you think that it is kind of you, Miss Pellissier,” he said, almost roughly, “to ignore your friends so? In your heart you know quite well that you could pay Sydney or me no greater compliment than to give us just a little of your confidence. Everything was done in the most legal and imposing way, but the whole thing was a fraud. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. “I am sorry that I have murdered you. “I don’t think I shall. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone.
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