“But, forgive me, you are tired. 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. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. The door popped open with a sigh. “You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. “Please search everywhere,” she said.
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