Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. It reminded her viscerally of her subhuman status, stripped away of the pretenses of art, intellect, and nicety. He seemed resigned but cheerful, and held frequent and serious discourses with the ordinary, who felt satisfied of his sincere penitence. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him.
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