But for the next few days he avoided Cheveney like the plague. “How could it not have hurt?” His analytical side started putting in overtime. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. "You can render no further service to your poor mother. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear.
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