Their small talk continued. . Even then she had understood vaguely that she had touched upon some philosophy of life: that one was never lonely when alone, only in the midst of crowds. These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. Or I should have made love to you long ago. Presently her aunt sighed deeply and looked at the clock. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing.
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