" Her son complied, and sat down upon the patch-work coverlet beside her. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. It was a beautiful place that she had found, a round cave by a small stream.
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