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Updated: June 23, 2025
"He ain't a bit scared!" "Go it, Josey!" "You don't forgit yer piece!" And a great deal more, while they pounded with their boots. "I love little pussy," began Josey. "Poor darling!" said a lady next me. "No mother." "I'll sit by the fi-yer." Josey was continuing. But nobody heard him finish. The room was a Babel. "Look at his little hand!" "Only three fingers inside them rags!"
I'll never lose my temper"; the one with the crystal mind, shining and flashing, the mind like a big room filled from end to end with light. But he had never existed. Maurice Jourdain was only a name. A name for intellectual beauty. You could love that. Love was "the cle-eansing fi-yer!" There was the love of the body and the love of the soul.
Then Josey opened his mouth and rhythmically rattled the following: "I love little pussy her coat is so warm And if I don't hurt her she'll do me no harm I'll sit by the fi-yer and give her some food And pussy will love me because I am good." That was all. It had come without falter or pause, even for breath. Josey stood, and the room rose to him. "Again! again!" they roared.
First you played for her the Moonlight Sonata, and then she sang for you with a feverish exaltation: "For as gold is refined in the fi-yer, So a heart is tried by pain." She sang it to comfort you. Her head quivered slightly as she shook the notes out of her throat in ecstasy.
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