‘I do not believe you. ‘Madwoman,’ he screamed back, as he climbed over the next pew, eyes darting down briefly to check for his sword. “I told you I did not love you. A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. 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 suppose I ought to have been a man.
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