He said that his life was boring and stupid without her. Presently he began to weave a tale, sorry enough, with all the ancient claptraps and rusted platitudes. She was nude and horribly maimed. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. E.
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