“I don’t know,” she said, “why you are always accusing me of premeditation.” “I thought you confessed to it: you told me the other day that you had to follow a certain line—and if one does a thing at all, it is a merit to do it thoroughly.” “If you mean that a girl who has no one to think for her is obliged to think for herself, I am quite willing to accept the imputation. But you must find me a dismal kind of person if you suppose that I never yield to an impulse.” “Ah, but I don’t suppose that; haven’t I told you that your genius lies in converting impulses into intentions?” “My genius?” she
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