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. If only one might open the shutters and let in the light. And, lastly, to the Seven Cities o' Refuge, in the New Mint. Why in heaven’s name didn’t I think of that before?’ ‘What are you talking of?’ ‘Never mind that now. It would be downright cruel to disillusion her. He went in and leaned, panting, against one wall. Then a bit of colour flowed into his sunken white cheeks.
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