“What were you doing?” Her voice was a little hysterical. It is Thérèse. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. Not the most stringent search, conducted all morning, turned up one solitary sheet. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery.
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