The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey. I have never spoken of these things to any human being. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. A moment before, the surface of the stream was black as ink. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. ’ ‘What matters it?’ cried Melusine impatiently.
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