Occasionally the canvas snapped as the wind veered slightly. "I have no sympathy," replied Prudence, "with a man who deliberately fuddles himself with strong drink. But … he must want to live in order that the inclination to repeat this incident may not recur. I—I hurt myself. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. ‘You obstinate little devil. "My horses, Charcam," he said, as a servant appeared.
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