“You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. Besides, you have so many talents, you build things. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. Trees were torn up by the roots; many houses were levelled to the ground; others were unroofed; the leads on the churches were ripped off, and "shrivelled up like scrolls of parchment. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. She looked at him mournfully. You must let me take you to things—to meetings and things, to conferences and talks. She found herself anxious to read more of him, and the next Wednesday she went to the British Museum and hunted first among the half-crown magazines for his essays and then through various scientific quarterlies for his research papers.
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