Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. ” Her reverie broke, and she found herself still in front of the looking glass, a barrette hanging loosely from her hair. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers.
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