She was new, unlike any other woman he had met in all his wide travel. Shari’s married and got two kids on her, a boy and a girl, twins, no less. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. “I suppose,” said her father, “I have read at least half the novels that have been at all successful during the last twenty years. The spinsters offered a good example of how singular each human being is, despite the fact that in sisters the basic corpuscle is the same. I've been hunting for this particular job for a thousand years!" She smiled a little sadly over this fine enthusiasm; for in her wisdom she had a clear perception where it would eventually end—in the veranda chair.
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