I wanted John to be proud to be seen with me. "Gone," replied the wounded man. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him. The world had not passed by but had gone around it in a tremendous half-circle.
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