Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. That is why I have dyed my hair, that is why I have abandoned my rôle of ingenuèe and altered my whole style of dress. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression.
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