He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. So I fear there's little chance of any one getting it. ’ Total bullshit, if you ask me. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. "It's a fine idea, my child, but you mustn't do it. “I—I shall be all right directly.
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