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All this last week my whole existence has been upset and monopolised by that story and by people; and I seem to have lost the faculty for rigidly planning out my days into sections. I have studied no French at all; and this journal is reduced again to a mere chronicle. But perhaps I am being too hard on myself. What was it my mother used to say about "making Jack a dull boy"? Paris inevitably gets into the blood and I cannot expect, or desire, that I should live my life here as if I were in London or, God forbid, the Potteries. People and places are my material after all.
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