His face was downcast. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive. “See you to-night, I suppose?” He sauntered off. I've told you about him; and you wrote a shrewd yarn on the subject. "The blood that has been spilt is that of his wife. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. On that basis alone, he had no right to give or accept love. ’ ‘You are not on my side at all, and it will be better that, instead of saying such things to him, you would say them to yourself.
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