“I mean it. I have calculated my chances, you perceive. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower. It’s not you—not a bit. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock.
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