And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. Anna leaned forward, watching the people in the streets. "Off!" she cried with a prolonged and piercing shriek. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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