My friends consider it wonderfully faithful. “You are late,” she murmured. The meat was coarse and disagreeably served. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. “I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper.
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