To-morrow I am going to Paris. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. There was no response. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch. You must think it over. I mystify you; I can see that. She elected to go to prison. Her head ached with a hollow pain. She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them. I’ve been waiting a long time for you.
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