You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. It had been intensified and corrupted by time, as if to add insult to injury. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. Melusine feigned a displeased frown. ‘Too late by the time I realised to what a dunderhead I’d pledged my friendship. I go back about once a year.
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