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Updated: May 17, 2025
Then the Mall of Wrath got up slowly, knocked the ashes off the end of his cigar, looked at his watch, and went out at the opposite door into his own rooms, where he stayed for the rest of the evening. She has never, I must say, been skittish since. "I hope you are listening, Miss Minora," said Irais, "because this sort of conversation is likely to do you good."
Irais has poked fun at her, and I have been, I hope, very kind; yet we are bracketed together in her black books. It is also apparent that she looks upon the Man of Wrath as an interesting example of an ill-used and misunderstood husband, and she is disposed to take him under her wing, and defend him on all occasions against us.
We sat wrapped up to our eyes in furs, and as mute as a funeral procession. "We are going to the burial of our last year's sins," said Irais, as we started; and there certainly was a funereal sort of feeling in the air.
"But I should be a clean object," cried Minora, "and my house would not be full of accumulated dirt." We said nothing there was nothing to be said. "It must be a happy land, that England of yours," Irais remarked after a while with a sigh a beatific vision no doubt presenting itself to her mind of a land full of washerwomen and agile gentlemen darting at door-handles.
Minora had hardly heard his voice before, so quiet had he been since she came, and sat with her pencil raised, ready to fix for ever the wisdom that should flow from his lips. "What would become of poetry if women became so sensible that they turned a deaf ear to the poetic platitudes of love? That love does indulge in platitudes I suppose you will admit." He looked at Irais.
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