A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. "Enschede!" he called. She had not at first the power for concealment. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. But I mustn't think of these things, or I shall grow mad.
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