“You stupid bitch. She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. He stabbed into her with brute force. Oh, I grew fond of you as the years went by. Five hours later she tiptoed down the hall and paused at the threshold of what they now called his study. Let her see what she could make here. “I was glad you did not send it back again,” he said.
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