"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. It was her distinctive test of an emotional state, its interference with a kindly normal digestion. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. “My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. But I’d have done it without, though it weren’t my place. ” “I don’t care how we meet,” she said. I have made up my mind to insist upon moving from here into Park Lane, or one of the Squares. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell.
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