At last she was roused. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. " "This comes of fine feelings!" muttered Jonathan, contemptuously. " "'Bloody and deceitful men shall not live half their days'," said Wood, reading aloud another passage.
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