"Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind. ” He contradicted himself by plunging into an exposition of motifs. ‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy. "You repeated the word 'Fool' over and over. Then they rode off at speed. To many in that crowded solitude it came as an extraordinary relief. “My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length. Practically.
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