Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. It’s one of our conventional superstitions. You are restless, aggressive, critical with all the crude unthinking criticism of youth. Time was moving so fast, she could no longer count the days since Gosse had come to her with his preposterous suggestion at the Coq d’Or, where they were staying and where he had robbed her and left her and Martha to their fate. I told you that at the outset. ’ ‘Pah! How can it be romantic? That is silly.
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