He's rewriting Poe and De Maupassant; and that stuff was good only when Poe and De Maupassant wrote it. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. Never. Was she interested in that young ass who was risking his bones over there in the city? They had come up on the same boat. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. "When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. Had Valade been to see him? Possibly even yesterday when he was followed by some young lad—and the girl, of course.
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