’ At last. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. These petals! I’ve been wanting to cry all the evening, cry here on your shoulder for my petals. Then the storm broke. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of a large and portentous body visible and tangible. Only she hadn’t. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. She is my only family.
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