Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. Down on me luck, I was, and they took me in. And I suppose it is too much to expect that any entirely English young lady would be prepared to tolerate me for the remainder of my life. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again. pgdp.
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