"The end is the most beautiful in English literature. "And, oh! forgive me, though I can never forgive myself, for the misery I have caused you. Beneath that tree let us lie. “John,” she said, “I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger. She saw its depraved eyes, but worse were the glittering teeth as it smiled. Her husband finally relented. Sheppard, you mean, Sir," interrupted his wife, ironically. He removed his cigarette from his lips and waved it gently in the air. "Alone?" "Not exactly, Sir. ’ ‘Gad, there is someone there,’ exclaimed Hilary beside him, shading his eyes with one hand. “No, no,” she cried. “All these days I have taken her for you. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. I must finish it at home.
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