There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. She was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future. “Why?” He inquired.
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