The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. The villagers were thronging to church. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. We fixed that. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty.
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