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for we authors in exile are supposed to possess a lofty pudicity of expression

It was a glorious evening, I recall. I was not alone. Yes, a woman—but that’s a different libretto.

Her face remained within a somewhat swarthy shadow, and only her forehead was bathed by the levigate light.

The Thunder-god, a white-haired giant with a furious beard blown back over his shoulder by the wind, dressed in the flying folds of a dazzling raiment

the play of light delicately dappling the white topside of a yacht