Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings. “What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home. She saw herself in very much Vivie’s position—managing something. She is a stranger to you.
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