They’re too free for their innocence or too innocent for their freedom. ” They were eating quails when they returned to the topic of love. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. "I wanted you to know. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face.
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