“Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. See paragraph 1. You’re a far cry from your usual gloomy self these days. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. To be no longer with Martha was strange. (What was the name he had given her that day?) He was walking beside the chair upon which appeared to be a bundle of colours. But there's a person in the hall—a very odd sort of man—waiting to see him, who won't be sent away.
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