’ Roding’s voice changed. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?” “Nothing except travelling all night,” he answered. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols.
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