He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “In Paris your sister appeared to me to be a charming student of frivolity. She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window. You know, I’ve done no work at all this afternoon. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. But we're neglecting the punch all this time. It was ended. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. Besides, I acted for others, and not for myself. But—it’s one of the things I’ve just been thinking over.
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