‘But you are idiot. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. I took him out of the hands of death. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby.
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