No matter how many books one read, each was different, as each human being was different. So strongly was he impressed with this idea, that grasping the iron bar with both hands, he dashed it furiously against the door, making the passage echo with the blows. But, indeed, he’s very human. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. This was the worst summer that I ever had in my life, Europe and all, and I can’t tell you how many times I drove by that Violin Camp hoping to catch a look at you, praying that there wasn’t some horny violin guy waiting to ask you out. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish.
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