gutenberg. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. Her head rose. A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. And the grotesquest fact was that she did not so much loathe, as experience with a quite critical condemnation this strange sensation of being kissed.
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