She had left for ever the cage, the galling leash: she was free. Gosse had hidden himself successfully then. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage.
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