She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. "You know not what you do. Very fascinating, though, trying to analyse the impulse. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. How I could have been such a fool I’ll never know.
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