She agreed entirely with her brother. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. She went about the familiar home with a clearer and clearer sense of inevitable conclusions. "That's a good story, lad. Wood. simply lost all hope. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him.
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