The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate. So long as they're about, I'll always be rewriting them and wasting my time.
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