And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. He left that arid rule clear of the least mist of refinement or delicacy. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing.
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