"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. Very soon she would be able to forget it. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents.
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