“Think of the mockery!” she said. “Something. Through fire and water, through penury and pestilence, your hand will always be on his shoulder. There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder.
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