It needs cultivating, I think. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. I'm neither an infidel nor an agnostic, so I'll content myself by saying that the hand of God is in this somewhere. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister.
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