“The first person you love, Ann Veronica, is yourself—get hold of that! The soul you have to save is Ann Veronica’s soul. Jackson!" "So he would," replied the latter: "so he would. Yes; she had heard the music the night before. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. My Mom is hell bent on having the biggest, most beautiful house in the neighborhood, my college education be damned. She sensed he might try and wane on her doorstep. He could not doubt it. For a moment she remained silent. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. " And, having partaken of a hasty breakfast, he set out. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. It was bare of any furnishings.
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