So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. And now her father said she must not go. Three times she escaped. For a while he threatened her. ” “She has chances?” he said, helping her out. “When one is happy—I don’t like to think of them. Everything had stayed the same during the centuries.
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