167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. John said nothing. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. " "Of course—of course," returned Wood, hastily; "anything's better than that. ’ ‘Who’s bleeding to death?’ demanded Trodger. Very good. It had a tiny flaw, most bizarre.
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