Her mind turned and accused itself of having been cold and hard. For was not Gerald a gentleman? An Englishman, whose services any female—excluding her own self so idiote— would be very happy to have. And to wish not is useless, because you have told me from when I was a little girl. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle.
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