She looked at the suitcase sadly and stashed it underneath her bed. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. There was a little pain, but it wasn’t anything. “I mean to,” she replied.
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