“You were born for great things,” he said huskily. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. He waved a hand toward the sea. I'll not forget your two mistresses, Jack. ‘But do you think I can blame you for this, Marthe?’ ‘I blame myself. "If you two loved each other," went on the doctor, "there would be something to stand on—a reason why for this madness.
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