“I don’t think our engagement can go on,” she plunged, and felt exactly that loss of breath that comes with a dive into icy water. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. "My enemy," replied her son. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. She heard him crash against it, and turned the key in the lock. The fact itself is regrettable enough—regrettable, I fear, is quite an inadequate word. My, um, my curfew. ‘My papa he does not wish me to marry the man I choose, and thus he places me in the convent that the nuns may lock me up and I cannot escape.
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