Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. ‘But you know. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone.
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