The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. It was a letter. She heard this standard expression of a strong soul wrung with a critical coldness that astonished herself.
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