I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. “Could you play ‘Fiddler on the Roof’?” father Thomas pleaded. ‘Softly, you say?’ she uttered, raging. As the woollendraper's back was towards him, he did not perceive him, but continued his passionate addresses. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon.
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