It’s a damned hard thing to do. ’ There was a silence. He laughed reassuringly. Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. You do not need me to remind you of your success at Paris. My birthday was on May first. He's an interpretative genius, if there ever was one.
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