She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. “Couldn’t we three go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyses me. 8 or 1. Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned. Voices floated down, but there was no sound of pursuit. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. But he only went home again to Paddington.
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