With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. “I remember,” she said, “that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. . Once more he was the searcher. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. “I must explain to her. There was more to be told, and this was as good a time as any. I can't invent; the thing won't come. But think of the disillusionment! Except for our sex we have minds like men, desires like men. .
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