You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. Suddenly she understood. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. By instinct. Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. This isn't your island, child; it's the great world.
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