So I ran away, blindly, knowing nothing of the world outside. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. The bridge was open. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. No one will ever love you as I love you now.
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