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It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art.

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