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🎮 The speaker sat a little way apart. The light from the oil lamp, suspended from the ceiling, fell upon his face. He wore a peasant’s blouse. It seemed to her a face she knew. Possibly she had passed him in the village street and had looked at him without remembering. It was his eyes that for long years afterwards still haunted her. She did not notice at the time what language he was speaking. But there were none who did not understand him. They had the little garden to themselves. The million lights of Paris shone below them.!

🏆 “Why couldn’t you have married?” asked Joan. “They were His last words, too,” he answered: “‘My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?’”!

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