Wood. Always as black and bitter as gall. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. ‘Oh! little Vee!’ he cried, ‘little Vee!’ and put his face between his hands and sat still for a long time before he broke out again. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. I want you. Ah, if I had written that!" "Don't you want to live?" "I don't know; I really don't know.
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