Irregularly, in a quite inglorious and unromantic way, you know, I am a vicious man. Her sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. And also she didn’t like them. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. Perhaps that is why I lost my ambition. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her.
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