"Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. Its very calmness was frightful. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. We begin rehearsing on Monday at the ‘Garrick’. Even her memories of he who had frequented her life for the longest period of years were worn and fading. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. ’ ‘Now that’s where you’re wrong. " "I'm sure I'm very sorry. I do, however. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales.
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