” John approached Lucy, handing the bouquet to her. He was vaguely uneasy; he knew not what about. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. Heedless, however, of the consequences, he pursued his task. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. My name is Armytage—Lord Ernest Armytage.
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