The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Do you remember what I said when you took me at the Mint four days ago? I told you my turn would come. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. ‘I don’t want that girl running her head into any more danger. The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating. “He is a sad blunderer. ” “This,” Anna declared, as she sipped her wine and looked around her, “reminds me more of Paris than any place I have yet seen.
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