CHAPTER XIII. The word "criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. The monster, Wild, when he visited my dungeon last night, told me, to add to my misery, that she occupied a cell near me. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. In the end he broke his own heart along with your mother's. But never mind that. The main idea now is of the future. ‘It is pretty. That’s my advice to you.
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