Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. He paced faster, stomping around. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. The evenings were dulcet and soft. She thought her niece very hard and very self-possessed and self-confident.
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