Finding all attempts at conversation with his companion in misfortune in vain, Wood, in order to distract his thoughts, looked up at the gigantic structure standing, like a wall of solid darkness, before him. "You tried to do something that was fine, and … and civilization would not let you. Lucy's ears were singing. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them.
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