This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. “I have never yet met a man whose intellect I could respect. Take my word for it, your troubles are over. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. ‘Is it soft, the way you seize me from behind? Parbleu, my heart it is flown from my chest! Boom, boom, it goes, even now.
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