But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped … - F. Scott Fitzgerald

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But with every word she was drawing further and further into herself, so he gave that up, and only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.