There are way-stations—even terminals. We were only—les autres. "I can escape to France. He said nothing, even though it was not raining. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven. “We’ll go together.
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