‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered. There was no longer any risk in association with her. . She would end alone. Hopefully. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. I am a man—of a sort of experience. You want music. Free, there is nothing left to her but the canal. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter.
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