She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. You were wide the mark, physically; otherwise you had him pat. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. Its heroes never had daughters, they borrowed other people’s. I tried it myself, Sir. Somebody to whom she would be necessary, who for days would have to depend upon her for the needs of life. “For nothing, do you call it?” he declared. Seventeen hours, sixteen hours.
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