She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. Once she heard him mutter, and she leaned down. “I’ve fallen in love. “It’s—private. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. Of you, I mean.
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