“Mike, that’s not even remotely funny. Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. It seems to me just talk; it seems to me like the fancy of a dream. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. It may be useful to you. "Won't you take these?" For a space he merely stared at her, perhaps wondering if she were real. Wood having laid hold of the canvass-bag.
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