She drifted northward from the Strand, and came on some queer and dingy quarters. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. It’s 180 endearing. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. I mean that it doesn’t interest you in itself. She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them. Three more people came to meet them at the door. Rather would I have gone with Leonardo—and he wished me to do so.
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