He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. “I want to find an address. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. I felt—I felt living in a masked world. "Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content.
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