She could feel her face turning beet red. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Anyhow, it were me as got you down to the wetnurse. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. His efforts at self-destruction were, however, prevented. Besides, I acted for others, and not for myself. The stench is everywhere.
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