This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. I am no one, Gérard. Ann Veronica was one of the few young people—and one must have young people just as one must have flowers—one could ask to a little gathering without the risk of a painful discord. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. For a long time to come that would naturally be the theme of any story he undertook to write. ” “So you think.
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