Ah, if I had written that!" "Don't you want to live?" "I don't know; I really don't know. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Yesterday!—who cared? To-morrow!—who knew? "Porpoise," she said, touching his hand. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love.
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