‘Quite mad, nuns are. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. Even you have not been able to hold her back. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. Wild is incapable of such baseness. Surely it was a dream.
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