She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. “I made two fruit pies and now I have no one to eat them. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. She went to the basement and shed her sodden coat and scarf, tossing them into her favorite modern appliance, the electric dryer. It may here be mentioned that this gate, destined to bequeath its name—a name, which has since acquired a terrible significance,—to every successive structure erected upon its site, was granted, in 1400, by charter by Henry the Sixth to the citizens of London, in return for their royal services, and thenceforth became the common jail to that city and the county of Middlesex. ‘As Madame Valade, you will be an émigré, not a nun.
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