Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. Perhaps that other boy who visited you backstage at the concert. He would have risen again, but for the significance of the action. It made me wake up, and there I lay thinking of you, spending your nights up here all alone, and no one to look after you. ‘Now, madame, tell me all about your life in France. “Queer letters he writes,” she said.
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