At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. She turned them down and gently placed the violin back in its red fake fur lined chamber. “Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression.
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