He had studied alchemy and astronomy, was a capable painter, and even wrote music. “I WILL be arrested! I WON’T go home!” the little old lady was screaming over and over again. “I expected you this morning,” he said. No one could take the place for anything but what it was, and even Gosse hesitated in the doorway. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic.
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