And he began also at times to wake at night and think about her. He flung himself backwards, hit the dais and fell heavily before the altar, losing his low-crowned beaver. He would raise her up once again, ply her with silks and jewels again, all of the accoutrements of the new generation: the cars, the toys, the restaurants, and the prestige. Whenever I feel particularly gregarious, I take the launch and run over to Copeley's and play poker for a couple of days. My death, probably.
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