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Updated: June 24, 2025
The athlete had already mounted the citadel heading a myrtle-crowned procession to bear a formal thanksgiving, but his wife had not then been with him. Now they would go together, without pomp. They walked side by side. Nimble Chloë tripped behind with her mistress’s parasol. Old Manes bore the bloodless sacrifice, but Hermione said in her heart there came two too many.
"Oh, don't pretend, for heaven's sake, you happy Don Juan, you myrtle-crowned lover!" Markelov shouted, quite forgetting the coachman, who, though he did not turn round on the box, must have heard every word. It is true the coachman was at that moment more occupied with the road than with what the gentlemen were saying behind him.
And so the revelling band pass onward, singing still, as they vanish down the darkened street: Strike, you myrtle-crownèd boys, Ivied maidens, strike together!... and Marcello is left alone: I went forth Joyfully, as the soul of one who closes His pillowed eyes beside an unseen murderer, And like its horrible return was mine, To find the heart, wherein I breathed and beat, Cold, gashed, and dead.
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