He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. And we are not traders looking at equivalents. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. She came in while he was still in the throes, conviction battling with commonsense, his own apprehension. ” She looked around for the voice around the Orchestra room, fumbling around with her books.
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