" Ideas are never born; they are suggested; they are planted seeds. He talked in the same style, and pretty nearly in the same language; laughed in the same manner, and coughed, or sneezed at the same time. "You are angry?" "Very. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. Wood, leaping from the bed. She mentioned, with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley and Nietzsche and Plato. Everything was going to hell.
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