The rest. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. 132 “I thought you wanted me—you told me so when we kissed in the park!” He cried. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage.
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