Ogilvy was full of a client’s trouble in that matter, a grave and even tragic trouble. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. She said that your mother was only fifteen when she went to live with them. “Do tell me all about it. ” “I did not come,” she faltered. And here are these places, full of contagion! “Of course, this is the real texture of life, this is what we refined secure people forget.
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