Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. 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. ’ There was a silence. If I offered you half of my possessions, you'd doubtless wallop me on the jaw.
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