“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. “But, how,” he said, sitting up astonished beyond measure, “not go on?” “I have been thinking while you have been talking. "I will struggle no longer with destiny. I can't run in these heavy fetters. But perhaps you don't know; there was nothing in the pockets. Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. ‘And that object confirms me in the belief that it is not I who will shortly meet my maker. And the situation it makes!—the situation!” Thus Manning, egotistical, inconsecutive, unreal. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself.
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