“You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. She did not know herself. We’re hedged about with discretions— and all this furniture—and successes! We are successful at last! Successful! But the mountains, dear! We won’t forget the mountains, dear, ever. Her mind left her. "All right," he said. ‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing.
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