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Three weeks later he was still in Salzburg, no longer at the Goldene Alp, but in rooms over a shop near the Boleskeys'. He had spent a small fortune in the purchase of flowers. Margit would croon over them, but Rozsi, with a sober "Many tanks!" as if they were her right, would look long at herself in the glass, and pin one into her hair.
"It is the last bottle." "What?" said Swithin; "and you gave it to a beggar?" "My name is Boleskey Stefan," the Hungarian said, raising his head; "of the Komorn Boleskeys." The simplicity of this phrase as who shall say: What need of further description? made an impression on Swithin; he stopped to listen. Boleskey's story went on and on.
'Never again! he brooded; 'why won't they let me alone? But it was not clear whether by 'they' he meant the conventions, the Boleskeys, his passions, or those haunting memories of Rozsi. If he had only had a bag with him! What was he going to say? What was he going to get by this? He received no answer to these questions. The darkness itself was less obscure than his sensations.
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