We've got to make him take up the harp of life and go twanging it again. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. . Upon this island whither he was bound there would be no diversions, breathing spells; the battle would be constant. Wild.
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