I took the usual way home. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. “The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame. It needs cultivating, I think. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering. If you hang Jack Sheppard, you'll cut off the flower o' the purfession.
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