Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. ‘You’ll make shadows. You fell in at once with her quixotic and damnable scheme of foisting her reputation and her follies upon your shoulders whilst she marries a rich man and commences all over again a life of selfish pleasure. At Morningside Park I feel as though all my growing up was presently to stop, as though I was being shut in from the light of life, and, as they say in botany, etiolated. So the talk went on. ‘Certainly I can prove it.
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