He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. ” “And why shouldn’t you?” “I felt that sort of thing couldn’t go on. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. But he didn’t marry her. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself.
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