She pointed suddenly at the portrait. Let me lie in Willesden churchyard. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. He recalled with exasperating perplexity her clear, matter-of-fact tone as she talked about love-making being unconvincing. “And for me it has been Pride and Pride and Pride! “I am the prodigal daughter.
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