“You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. The chapel was crowded to excess. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip.
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