Lucy looked at her with a small measure of pity. He thought rationally; that is to say, he thought clearly, as a child thinks clearly. I do not wish to return to Paris. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. Go on and tell me. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out.
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