She fell into another slumber, one which was more like a blackout. ” “I suppose not. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would regret it still more. You will torture yourself and torture her all through life; but in the end she will pour the wine of her faith into a sound chalice. One never knew when it would be necessary to resume her disguise.
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