“David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. "Then we're imprisoned. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. What would it be without that safeguard?” Ogilvy pursued his own topic. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome.
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