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And she blamed herself. If only she would not blame herself. “He’s one in a thousand ... if only I could be as calm and cool as he is.” Why not be calm and cool? She had gone too far ... “the end of my tether” ... mother, a clever phrase like that, where had she got it? It was true. Her suffering had taught her to find that awful phrase. She feared her room, “loathed” it. She, always gently scolding exaggeration, used and meant that violent word.