But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. "I'm glad to hear it, that's all," he added, taking out his snuff-box, his never-failing resource in such emergencies. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. “I’ve tried to make words tell it. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently.
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