He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself. "Is my house to be made a receptacle for all your natural children, Sir? Answer me that. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful.
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