The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. From midnight until morning he was now left alone. You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw’s study of me, and sent it to Cariolus. He wanted to become a millionaire. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. It was 1582. Nobody can trust you.
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