It was the girl. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. ‘Jacques, you have been very much my friend. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. Of course she had often heard sailors hammering out their ditties.
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