“Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. I have no right to love you. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. But one of these days everything will click back into place.
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