Damn you, Sassenach!" his voice said, from a very great distance. His voice was choked with passion. "Dam you! I swear if ye die on me, I'll kill you!

People always ask me "what are you doing?" But
They don't see what they are doing.

But about the smell of rancid butter... There are good associations too. When I think of this rancid butter I see myself standing in a little, old world courtyard, a very smelly, very dreary courtyard. Through the cracks in the shutters strange figures peer out at me.

On earth there is no heaven, but there are pieces of it.

Written By Jules Renard

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