” He dared, his nostrils flaring. He's on the ragged edge. “I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. ‘In the bookroom, sir,’ answered the man, his eyes round as they took in the furious beauty at the visitor’s side. “Why did I ever take that loan? An idiot girl in an asylum would have known better than that! “Vulgarity of soul and innocence of mind—the worst of all conceivable combinations. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself.
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