By this time, she had so far succeeded in calming herself, that she answered the greetings of the neighbours whom she encountered on her way to the sacred edifice—if sorrowfully, still composedly. A hazy face appeared through the fog of sleep, pale and thin and looming. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. “I have not left this apartment myself. I am five-and-thirty, and I have knocked about in the world and tasted the quality of life. A deadlock. I’ve thought that out, and you must make up your mind to it.
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