’ A strangled sob escaped her as his thumb dug cruelly into the soft flesh of her wrist. Gwen—I saw Gwen the other day, and the paint’s thicker than ever. “I am sure,” she said, “that you mean to stay until you are turned out. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. .
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