‘No, no, I am convinced your very first theory was right. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. "A storm!" exclaimed the landlord. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray. And in reality even that magic garden-close resolves itself into a villa at Morningside Park and my father being more and more cross and overbearing at meals—and a general feeling of insecurity and futility. You came out like an ant for your nuptial flight. “Kindly explain it to me. I cannot answer that question.
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