"I have dreamed that I shall see him before I die," she rejoined. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. ‘This is not love, Marthe. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Take it," he cried, lifting the babe from the bottom of the boat, and flinging it towards its unfortunate father.
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