I'll tell you something. One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. ’ ‘Oh, she’ll be safe enough, Gerald. God, Lucy, what’s it been, how many years?” “I’m so sorry, John.
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