Because she states her case in a tangle, drags it through swamps of nonsense, it doesn’t alter the fact that she is right. She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. "Here, wife—hostess—fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the corner cupboard. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. Until the last few months.
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