If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. He can't play cards, either, when he's sober. You must know that. “Then we go on to this place, the Oeschinensee.
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