What news. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called. I came to beg you instead to do me the honour of becoming my wife. A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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