“Queer letters he writes,” she said. Think, ma’am. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. “I get that a lot.
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