She still could not muster the strength to leave. Before the Monroes I was placed with a single woman, Leslie Cavendish. What a pity! For all her ignorance of material things—the human inventions which served the physical comforts of man—how much she knew about man himself! She had seen him bereft of all those spiritual props which permit man to walk on two feet instead of four—broken, without resilience. She laid her hand upon his arm. Be so good as to come this way. Not Trodger. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. I waited until he was asleep and then I tied him up with some duct tape and some old rope he had in the shed.
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