It was eleven o'clock. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. I did not know what I was saying. NOW it’s just as though you had grown up suddenly. I’m going to that stupid party at the Vorsack’s to get to the bottom of it. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company.
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