For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. He said that his life was boring and stupid without her. Then there was also the horse. " The poor widow hung her head, and pressed her child closer to her breast. ” “Why?” “If I were bad at it, you would be on your way to the hospital by now. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them.
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