Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it. Anna had told me that he carried always with him this bogus marriage certificate. I can't pump out all there is to these compositions. It is foolish, she murmured to herself, foolish. Pure romantic nonsense on her part. ” Anna had reached the house where she lodged, but she hesitated on the doorstep. In the centre of the upper gallery was a spacious saloon, appropriated to the governors of the asylum.
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