He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. The assemblage was for the most part, if not altogether, composed of persons to whom vice in all its aspects was too familiar to present much of novelty, in whatever form it was exhibited. Other phrases returned now, like echoes. I’ve told them all that was necessary, but I— wanted to ask your pardon—for having made myself a nuisance to you, and for breaking into your rooms—and to thank you—the doctor says you bound up my wound—or I should have bled to death. Miss Mary to the life, I said, and so she is.
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