Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. He stood a little anxious and fussy, bothered by the responsibility of her, entirely careless of what her life was or was likely to be, ignoring her thoughts and feelings, ignorant of every fact of importance in her life, explaining everything he could not understand in her as nonsense and perversity, concerned only with a terror of bothers and undesirable situations. It was the blood she found that cemented her decision that her foster daughter was a criminal. shouldn’t be friends. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. ’ ‘Exactly so. But I have powerful friends. They don’t count, and I don’t care. ‘I am not a fool.
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