When I realized that she was a liar and a mean bitch I broke it off with her for good. I have never wept since that day. ‘And nor do I. “You are a thousand times more beautiful,” he said, “than anything else could be. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. Nine years ago, I was honest—was happy. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society.
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