’ ‘Believe me, she wouldn’t have cared. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. I was supposed to do the same, but I didn’t. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. ‘Also that it was that you did not wish the French connection. These petals! I’ve been wanting to cry all the evening, cry here on your shoulder for my petals.
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