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we. But it was they who roused me to consciousness. And it was for her, Miriam, I wrote scraps of poems and bits of a novel. I wrote them furtively, at home, pretending it was study: writing in the kitchen where all the household affairs were going on. My father hated study and books—he hated to see us poring. My mother liked to see us submissively studying, to “get on” 去书内
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