I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. Her heartbeat raced, her limbs turned to water, and it was only by a miracle and the strength of the arms that held her that she remained standing on her feet. People of your sort—I don’t want the instincts to—to rush our situation. Sir John looked about him, and somehow the laugh died away. What need had she of Gerald, or anyone? Yet, if he was here, would he not make some foolish game with her and make her laugh? Instead of behaving in this fashion so stupide, and crying, crying, crying.
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