A story.

Oh-traveler! …

When we narrowed, widely, I backed him to contemplate the face-on him and the [148] soul. Huddled numa half of cloth edged with mauve martha skins, with shriveled skins mustache, his dug two more wrinkles, a molleza in broad shoulders, my friend seemed already groaning under the oppression and terror Pezo and the your day. I smiled, for he smiled:

Valente-Jacintho … So how have you lived?

He answered, very quietly:

[152] It is then separated from Ecclesiastes. And bringing circulated through Paris in the coupe Solomon, a brother of pain, who repeated the cry that is bleak summa of human truth, Vanitas vanitatum! All is Vanity! Sometimes, early in the morning found him lying on the soph, num silk robe, absorbing Schopenhauer, while his podiatrist, kneeling on the carpet, you pulley with respect and skill toenails. Landed next to the cup of Saxe, filled the coffee of Moka d’sent by the emirs of the Desert, contented than ever, not by might, nor by the aroma. The spaces the book landed on his chest, slipped a compassionate look to the podiatrist that look like torture for the pain that all had suffered a live match. Surely the stir well, ever, in feet of others … And when the pedicurist rose, Jacintho opened for him a smile of fellowship, with a “goodbye, my friend” who was “goodbye, my brother!”

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