Part 4 But presently, as she sat on the one antimacassared red silk chair and surveyed her hold-all and bag in that tidy, rather vacant, and dehumanized apartment, with its empty wardrobe and desert toilet-table and pictureless walls and stereotyped furnishings, a sudden blankness came upon her as though she didn’t matter, and had been thrust away into this impersonal corner, she and her gear. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. Seeing her improved mood, he had offered the Latin reading lesson strategically, knowing it would surprise her that he considered her capable. " Ideas are never born; they are suggested; they are planted seeds.
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