I guess those books are okay because they are fiction. “Michelle, I cannot give you my blessing. When I think of the love you give me—One ought to give you back love. And when she went to sleep, then always Capes became the novel and wonderful guest of her dreams. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. "Good-b'ye!" And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure.
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