‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. She shattered the edifice he was building up of himself as a devoted lover, waiting only his chance to win her from a hopeless and consuming passion. We’re hedged about with discretions— and all this furniture—and successes! We are successful at last! Successful! But the mountains, dear! We won’t forget the mountains, dear, ever. Like the Valades, I imagine. But it was almost choked up with fallen stacks of chimneys, broken beams of timber, and shattered tiles.
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