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It rasped her, though, to have stirring about in her this brutal monster!
to her twings cracking and
feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-
encumberred forest, the soul; never to be content quite, or quite secure, for any moment the brute would be stirring, this hatred, which, expecially since her illness,

 had power to make her feel scraped,hurt in her spine; gave her physical pain and made all pleasure in beauty, in friendship, in being well,
in being loved and making her home delightful, rock, quiver, and bend as if indeed there were a monster grubbing, at the roots, as if the whole panoply
of content were nothing but self love! this hatred!

Nonsense, nonsense! she cried to herself; punishing through she swing doors of Mulberry's the florists.

(Mrs Dalloway, Virginia Woolf)

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