"But never mind who, or what I am. When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. I do not wish to blow off a head, you understand. I think that there is no better friend for a girl than a man rather older than herself. She cried out in pain, then in pleasure as he thrust himself into her. “Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. It was true. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. By that time it seemed to them they had lived together twenty years.
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