The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. He asked her whether she understood what she was saying, and went on to say still more precisely that she should never touch a penny of his money until she came home again—not one penny. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. .
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