Anyhow, he did not sentimentalize her. See paragraph 1. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. She loved her mother Marina more than any other thing in the world and could not bear to speak to her for a fortnight after being told her fate.
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