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. ‘C’est à dire, I would say from my father only comes the English. Each time also we quarrel, and even if you are laughing very much, you become angry. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. It was a mad half-hour. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially.
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