And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. Shortly a man descended laboriously. Good riddance to bad rubbish. As I hope for mercy, I speak the truth!— let him deny it if he can. This did not tickle his vanity; on the contrary, it enlivened his terror, which is a phase of fascination.
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