“I can’t conceive what you want. Only I’m so incensed with that crazy fool Gerald that—oh, well, never mind. “Have you ever been to the opera, Ann Veronica?” said Ramage. "You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable. I’ve got to have you, and by God I will. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. But the besetting evil of the place, and that which drew down the severest censures of the writers above-mentioned, was that this spot,—which of all others should have been most free from such intrusion—was made a public exhibition. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
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