Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. He certainly bore inspection. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. ‘Imbecile. And so Winifred understood him.
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