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You get up every morning then life happens to you. You just have to have the right stuff to get through it. ↗
One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came and bent over me, and said--"Jane, have you a glittering ornament round your neck?" I had a gold watch-chain: I answered "Yes." "And have you a pale blue dress on? I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fancied the obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense; and that now he was sure of it. ↗
Ik riep: “Doornroosje! Je bent ternauwernood meer van belang! Ternauwernood… Nog net wel. Nog niet helemaal niet. “Ik houd ternauwernood oneindig veel pijnlijk nauwgezet en desalniettemin niet voor herhaling vatbaar nog net wel van jou”, zei ik. En niet lang daarna: “Ik houd ternauwernood oneindig veel op zijn minst overdadig en onomkeerbaar pijnlijk nauwgezet bijna achteloos en desalniettemin niet voor herhaling vatbaar nog net wel van jou.” “Van wie?” (riepen de denkbeeldige meeuwen) “Van wie? Van wie?” “Van Doornroosje”, zei ik, buiten adem. ↗
Oh, they'll never believe a woman could solve such puzzles. They'll just assume I'm humoring you by editing it myself and allowing you to put your name to it." She raised her eyebrows. "But you wouldn't be." He humphed. "They'll never hear me admit it." "I will," she said, a smile curving her lips. He shrugged. "They'll believe me, not you. ↗
Love and lust aren’t always in sync. You can love someone, but not be ready to have sex with them. Or you can meet someone random and end up jumping in all the way. There’s nothing wrong with either. You’ve waited this long, so wait until you’re really feeling it. If he’s The One, he’ll understand. ↗
People snare when I tell them that I’m an emotional prostitute. But after my rebuttal, they begin to realize that they are one too. Like me, they have pimped their emotions for the affections of another. Like me, they’ve gone through life tormented by the idea of living a happily ever after, not realizing that the ever after isn’t so happy. ↗
The blame of course belonged to Clyde, who just was not much given to talk. Also, he seemed very little curious himself: Grady, alarmed sometimes by the meagerness of his inquiries and the indifference this might suggest, supplied him liberally with personal information; which isn't to say she always told the truth, how many people in love do? or can? but at least she permitted him enough truth to account more or less accurately for all the life she had lived away from him. It was her feeling, however, that he would as soon not hear her confessions: he seemed to want her to be as elusive, as secretive as he was himself. ↗
