“Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. And me, I wish to know why you have seen him. But of what avail is this? You have no execution, no finish. I feel years younger, a man again. “Oh, you can act!” she cried. I do not ask if you are entirely English, but if you say truly when you say you are at my service. Only the next of kin.
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