The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. I have weird skin. That might happen on her birthday—in August. He rambled in an unfortunate monotone, the result of his innate fear of public speaking. .
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