“I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. “Hainault, Celeste’s friend. You truly are your mother’s, Lucia. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. Gentlemen,—Mr. ” “I promise,” he answered heartily. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion.
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