He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. "What have you got there in your breast—a stone? Is there blood or water in your veins?" The dam broke, but not with violence. “Many nights I have thought of you, Anna.
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