These sweeping dignities were not within the compass of her will; she remembered she liked Ramage, and owed things to him, and she was interested—she was profoundly interested. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. “I’m covered. You can give up thinking and leave all the brain work to her.
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