She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. Afterwards we started for a motor ride to a place outside Paris for déjeuner, and I suppose the man’s nerve failed him. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. ‘Something in that, missie.
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