"It is too late. I can’t love you. She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. ” Again on his way homeward from Cavendish Square he abandoned the direct route to pass by the door of Anna’s flat. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. “I feel shabby and disgraced. Wood carved the ducks; Mr.
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