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8. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard. Manning, “they’re a dream. ‘Do you swear it? There’s no knowing if one can believe you. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. Here a little delay occurred. ” She disengaged herself from him and went out of the room with a grave, preoccupied expression. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. ’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece.
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