She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge. They went to the Zoological Gardens together one Saturday to see for themselves a point of morphological interest about the toucan’s bill—that friendly and entertaining bird—and they spent the rest of the afternoon walking about and elaborating in general terms this theme and the superiority of intellectual fellowship to all merely passionate relationships. She had lost her sense of direction, and was among unfamiliar streets. “They mould one insensibly. Spurling in alarm. The soi-disant Valade escapes and takes my proof, which I have broken on his head. Unless he can arise from the bottom of the Thames, where he and his abhorred father lie buried, you will never behold him again in this world. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart.
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