Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. I’m sorry.
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