" "Come this way, Mr. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. “I have stood it for a month, Anna,” he exclaimed. “Why can’t we propagate by sexless spores, as the ferns do? We restrict each other, we badger each other, friendship is poisoned and buried under it!. His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. I can’t love you.
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