Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. He had, for the most part, been correct. I found a blue stone on the beach once. The teacher turned towards the blackboard to inscribe the names of Capulet and Montague. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. I shall count it a privilege.
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