"I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real. The man himself was not a pleasant object. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. In one grave, mind. Life! Life and love! It makes me want to be always young, always strong, always devoting my life—and dying splendidly. ” “And yet,” he murmured, “one of the greatest of our writers has declared that the true spirit of Bohemianism is denied to your sex. There's nothing so sad in this world as an old fool," she added. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. One more passer-by; and always would she remember his patience and tenderness and disinterestedness.
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