It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. He had a great contempt for the sections the “theorizers” produced. The sun was rising, illuminating the trees in black as if they were drawn in ink. “Remember,” he said, “you are not by any means a dying man now, but you’ll never pull through if you don’t husband your strength. ‘Well?’ he uttered between heavy breaths. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. And in the Avenue she had an encounter with Ramage. Of you—an angel with one wing.
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