She had worried in fear that the excitement would be too much for him. Both of them would be committing novel and unforgettable acts. She lunched at a creamery in Great Portland Street, and as the day was full of wintry sunshine, spent the rest of the lunch-hour in a drowsy gloom, which she imagined to be thought upon the problems of her position, on a seat in Regent’s Park. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. ” She barked.
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