All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. “You see you do not know how much of truth there is in his story. To a woman she might have confided; but to this man, kindly as he was, it was unthinkable. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. .
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