“Too late, my dear girl,” she exclaimed. ” Lucy put her hand to her heart and pulled one of her kinky curls straight. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. The last piece was Scheherazade. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force.
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