"How sweet these roses are! Shall I put them into water?" "Put them where they came from," replied Mrs. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. ‘There’s a surgeon on his way, and my men are under orders to do whatever is needful. "And you will answer it frankly?" "Certainly. Yet you make our Bohemianism seem like a vulgar thing.
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