It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. “I don’t know, John. Then he turned with a fierce movement to take her into his arms. I have given up painting. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. His hair flew out from the sides of his head like black bats from a belfry, it was unruly and long. You’d think he wanted to meet the wretch again.
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