O life! Dark stream of swirling bogwater on which apple-trees have cast down their delicate flowers. The spittle in his throat grew bitter and foul to swallow and the faint sickness climbed to his brain so that for a moment he closed his eyes and walked on in darkness. He crouched down between the sheets, glad of their tepid glow. Grose looked round once more; she fixed her eyes on the duskier distance, then, pulling herself together, turned to me with abrupt inconsequence.
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