Still—I don’t know whether I quite like—Something ramshackle about those people, Vee. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall.
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