But Darrell averted his head. "I never stand upon ceremony where I know I shall be welcome. "Are you his ghost, then?" "No—no," answered Jack. You know how stubborn they get. "But I can guess what it's for. Paris looms behind—a tragedy of strange recollections—here she emerges Phœnix-like, subtly developed, a flawless woman, beautiful, self-reliant, witty, a woman with the strange gift of making all others beside her seem plain or vulgar. . . It dealt from floor to ceiling and end to end with the Theory of the Forms of Life; the very duster by the blackboard was there to do its share in that work, the very washers in the taps; the room was more simply concentrated in aim even than a church. I loathe this room.
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