I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. She turned out the electric light and gained the hall. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. " "Good enough for me. Meanwhile, she doesn’t realize she’s pregnant and he’s still after her, day after day.
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