She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. The doorman replied, tipping his cap, “I don’t speak much Italian these days, not since my mother died. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind.
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