But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Wood's boat bearing up towards him. Or, after all, is it worth while? The Channel is a little broader than the Boulevards— but one crosses it sometimes. “You were never born,” he declared, “to follow the well worn roads. Lucy gestured to Michelle to follow her downstairs. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. In the retrospect she was amazed to think how things had gone to pieces, for at the outset she had been quite prepared to go home again upon terms. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true.
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