It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. But from the first her rather old-fashioned conception of life had jarred with the suburban atmosphere, the High School spirit and the memories of the light and little Mrs. She was crushed with a sense of her own terrible impotency.
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