It was then, I am sure, empty. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. Hetty, looking out of the window—she always smoked her after-breakfast cigarette at the window for the benefit of the less advanced section of Morningside Park society—and trying not to raise objections, saw Miss Stanley going down toward the shops. I’m not a bit afraid of anything—scandal, difficulty, struggle.
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