You grow old.You love everybody.You forgive everyone.You think: we are all leavesdragged along by the wind.Then comes a splendid spottedyellow one—ah, distinction!And in that momentyou are dragged under.
No you cannot write about Me I think I should go in and see her. Can I stand it. She is shaking. No doubt. I should go in. She’ll be pouring...
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