“If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. Good and Evil. But with the morning, the glorious unstained morning the passion of living would stir even the blood of a clod. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Others who have done, have found you false. Her back had stiffened, and her hazel eyes looked steadfastly ahead.
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