CHAPTER III. “And what was that dreadful confession you had to make?” he was saying. ’ ‘I also said, if you remember, that I could not promise not to do so. The future was not so black. I have it about me. There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl's heart for the want of it. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about. In a sense I don’t care. All its better points were improved, while the less attractive ones (and they were few in comparison) were subdued, or removed. And then they talked of Anarchism and Socialism, and whether the former was the exact opposite of the latter or only a higher form. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly.
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