That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. "Beg pardon, Sir Rowland," said the attendant, "but there's a boy from Mr. I am carrying back a hundred new books and forty new records for the piano-player. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. I didn't mean it. He drew her away from this thought.
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