But the father, to go his way forever alone! The iron in the man!—the iron in this child of his! Wanting a little love, a caress now and then. ‘Believe it or not, I do it for pleasure. Cowering in a corner upon a heap of straw sat his unfortunate mother, the complete wreck of what she had been. I found him lying like this, the bleeding partly stopped by this scarf, else he had been dead by now. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. Nature is a mother; her sympathies have always been feminist, and she has tempered the man to the shorn woman. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative. ’ Gosse’s eyes went to the portrait, and evidently took in the uncanny resemblance, looking from it to Melusine and back again. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 29-09-2024 16:37:26