Look at me. “Why did you ever let me love you? Why did you ever let me peep through the gates of Paradise? Oh! my God! I don’t begin to feel and realize this yet. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. We want it badly at the present time. It is we who have become the parasites and toys. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed.
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