I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. She loved to dress the Fritz and Anna in outfits that she stitched from discarded velvet dresses. I cannot turn into a bat. ’ ‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’ ‘Hardly. You must—you shall be mine. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. Did you really doubt if I knew?” “No.
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