If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. It is at the lodge that we stay.
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