” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. . It never is. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. She was always so fertile that she could even impregnate herself using the semen from a corpse, which she did, as you found out.
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