They don’t count, and I don’t care. You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw’s study of me, and sent it to Cariolus. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. He’s the handle of life for you.
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