” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. It cuts. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. I have something that weighs heavily upon my mind. For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. ” “Perhaps not in a general way,” he answered calmly.
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