“I can talk to you and you to me without a scrap of effort,” said Capes; “that’s the essence of it. And then—this sudden thrust. ‘But there is something still I do not understand. ” She removed some posters from a chair, and seated herself coolly. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. “What I am after is that beauty isn’t a special inserted sort of thing; that’s my idea. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. .
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