She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. 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. " "Are they good?" "He can write; but he hasn't found anything real to write about. ’ He flushed. " "Mr. ” She patted his arm and wiped her tears away. But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs.
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