‘She would not tell me. Only I do not care to write about anything else. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. “I wonder what you could do?” he said. “Let’s go outside. . ’ ‘How could he when he didn’t even handle it himself? Went off, I told you, and left it all to me. ‘Jacques, do not die while I am gone. For although I must confess it reads very much like an application or a testimonial or some such thing as that, I can assure you I am writing this in fear and trembling with a sinking heart.
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