“But it makes me feel inhuman,” he added. Marry, come up! I'm not so easily deluded. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. With the same inducements we should all do the same thing. The one through which she had come and Gosse had entered behind her. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped.
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