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Preview — My Name Is Lucy Barton by Elizabeth Strout
was slightly embarrassed for him, that he would think of me as having no style, because the clothes I wore were me, and if they came from thrift shops and were not ordinary outfits, it did not occur to me that this would mean anything, except to someone rather shallow.
You are wasting time by suffering twice. I mention this only to show how many things the mind cannot will itself to do, even if it wants to.