We at Arnaud were alone at home and knit with the same frantic rest

And just like Penelope she waited for her husband. Mr. Arnaud stayed all day away from home. He had a schoolmate in the mornings and evenings. Usually he came home for dinner, even though his legs were tired and the lyseo was at the other end of Paris. He forced himself to travel this long journey, not so much of a pity to his wife or thrift as he had already become a habit for him. But on certain days he was arrested for dinner at dinner; or he was not afraid not to take advantage of the fact that the lyseo was in the same district as the library, but stayed in the middle of that library. Lucile Arnaud was alone for days. Except for the cleaners who came between eight and ten to make rough work, and the food-supplying people who asked to ask what they wanted, and brought the ordered items, no one called his doorbell. He didn’t know anyone in the house. Christophe had moved away and there were new inhabitants on the side of the lime garden. Céline Chabran was married to August Elsberger. Élie Elsberger had left with her family in Spain, where she had been given a job in a mine. The old Weill had a wife dead, and she didn’t live in her Parisian apartment. Only Christophe and his friend Cécile had maintained their relationship with Lucile Arnaud, but they lived very far away, and when the tiring work plagued them all the days, it took weeks, when they didn’t visit Lucile. He had nothing else to follow than himself.

He wasn’t at all sorry. She had very little things to do with her. The smallest everyday thing. Some little flower whose delicate leaf curtain she cleaned her mother gently every morning. A quiet gray cat, who had begun to follow her husband’s lifestyle, like well-stocked pets, at least: she spent her days as a hell of her mistress, or was sitting on a table next to a lamp, following all the movements of her fingers, and sometimes creating a spooky eye-catching eye that then returned to her. went out indifferently. Only the furniture was for him. Each of them was so homey to him. With childish joy, he cleansed them, gently wiping out the dust that had landed in their huts, and then carefully placed them again into their former corners. He rightly spoke with them without words. He smiled at the only beautiful antique furniture he owned, the fine Ludwig XVI style silter train. He had the same joy when he saw the objects every day. She took the same time as she was checking her linen: she spent hours sitting on a chair, head and arms inside a large rustic cabinet, exploring and arranging them, bridging the bridge while the cat was curiously looking at her again.

But his greatest happiness was that he got all his home coffin after serving and having dinner alone, – God knew what kind of meal (he didn’t need much food), – and with the necessary things in the city, after those dailies, I’ll get around at four o’clock in the evening, and settle in the window or stove with crafts and mirre. Sometimes he invented some reason for not having to leave home at all; he was happy if he could have all the days inside, especially during the winter when it rained. He was terribly frightened by the cold, the last, the dirt and the rain, as he was like a neat, casual-skinned little cat. He preferred to eat as he went out to buy breakfast food if the food purchasers happened to forget him when. Then he just chopped a chocolate cake or searched for a couple of fruits in the closet. She warned her to inform her husband about her eating habits. It was a small adventure for him. Then, in the days when the light was almost extinct, and sometimes beautiful and sunny, – (the outside was radiated by the blue sky; in his most comfortable corner, a stool under his feet, a knitting in his hand, and without falling into his funeral, reading, even his fingers worked all the time. He had some notes on the table next to him. Usually a red-edged book, a translation of an English book. He read quite a bit at a time, barely a day, and the book often rested for a long time at the same point opened on his knees, or he didn’t open it at all: he already knew it, he only dreamed of things he had told. It was enough for Dickens or Thackeray’s long novel for weeks, and those weeks he expanded by dreaming for years. They surround her with a gentle tone. Modern people who read quickly and badly no longer know what a wonderful power the beautiful books radiate when they enjoy it slowly. M: We did not doubt Arnaud that the lives of those novels were not as true as his own. There were those in whom he would have wanted to be a friend: a good-hearted, jealous lady, Castlewood, that secretly loving woman whose heart was maternal and virgin, was her sister; little Dombey with his own little child; he was Dora, a woman and a child who dies; he loved his arms to embrace all those childish souls of the novels who wander through glorious and pure eyes to their earthly life; and around him, a gentle, wretched, and harmless orgy, who drove their ridiculous and touching wound images, traveled around him as a strange convoy, leading their good Dickens’ sweet spirit, in their dreams, at the same time, both laughing and ready for tears. When m: We watched Arnaud look out of his window, he saw some passionate or dreading creature in the world of his dreams. There stone houses on the other side haaveksi he live a similar life as his hero, so they are the heroes themselves lived there. That he didn’t want to go out was because that he was afraid of a world filled with moving mysteries. He saw those tragedies trapped in the moving people, the ilveils that are currently taking place. And it was not always a mere imagination. For in loneliness, he had achieved the gift of that strange intuition that allows a person to see the secrets of their past or future life from the eyes of passers-by, which are often unknown to those concerned. M: We in Arnaud mixed romantic memories in these real visions that rounded and changed their form. When he was in the city, he felt completely drowned in the sea of ​​infinite experiences. She had to hurry to her home to get to the bottom. the ongoing ilvils. And it was not always a mere imagination. For in loneliness, he had achieved the gift of that strange intuition that allows a person to see the secrets of their past or future life from the eyes of passers-by, which are often unknown to those concerned. M: We in Arnaud mixed romantic memories in these real visions that rounded and changed their form. When he was in the city, he felt completely drowned in the sea of ​​infinite experiences. She had to hurry to her home to get to the bottom. the ongoing ilvils. And it was not always a mere imagination. For in loneliness, he had achieved the gift of that strange intuition that allows a person to see the secrets of their past or future life from the eyes of passers-by, which are often unknown to those concerned. M: We in Arnaud mixed romantic memories in these real visions that rounded and changed their form. When he was in the city, he felt completely drowned in the sea of ​​infinite experiences. She had to hurry to her home to get to the bottom. we Arnaud mixed romantic memories in these real visions that rounded and changed their form. When he was in the city, he felt completely drowned in the sea of ​​infinite experiences. She had to hurry to her home to get to the bottom. we Arnaud mixed romantic memories in these real visions that rounded and changed their form. When he was in the city, he felt completely drowned in the sea of ​​infinite experiences. She had to hurry to her home to get to the bottom.

But did he need to read or see other people? He just had to look at himself. Bring the pale, extinct creature, – the secluded, – how it was bright and radiant from within. How to make life full of the threat! How rich were the memories, the riches that nobody had thought of in him!… Were they ever true? – Of course, because they were true to him … In this way, the magic wand of dreams can change the poverty of life!

M: We Arnaud remembered all his former years until the time of the little girl; in this silence, the delicate flower of his desperate desires arose again … The first child love of a young girl whose charm was fascinated by her immediately when she saw that being; he loved the girl as only then can she love when she is infinitely pure; he was dying from the mind, knowing his touch; he would have liked to kiss his feet, be his little maid, marry him; the friend had then married, had not become happy, had a child who had died… Another love came to her about twelve years old, again to a girl who was her age and treated her tyranny: a devilish blond lustful, selfish: she cried another for fun, and then gave her lovely kisses; together they make thousands of plans for the future. That girl had suddenly begun to become a Carmelite, without knowing why; it was claimed that he was happy today… Then there was a great passion for a man who was much older than himself. No man had been aware of that feeling, not even the one to which it was directed. He had sacrificed his love for a tremendous amount of passionate loyalty, affection … Then came another love: that time he was loved. But he was not allowed to believe that he was loved because of his bizarre curiosity and self-doubt, and not to express that he loved himself. And then the fortune was gone so that he didn’t take it … Then … But what’s the benefit of telling other fairy tales that only matter to the man? Many of the many little things that had received him an important part: a friend’s friend; a sincere word from the mouth of Olivier, said without notice; Christophe’s refreshing visits and the enchanted world opened by his play to the listener; the eyes of an unknown person; so, some thoughtful and unintentional infidelities in this great woman who was overly respectful and clean: they frightened her and thwarted her, and she struggled to expel them in her mind, but still created them, – in all her innocence, – a little sunshine in her heart … She loved very much for her husband, even though he wasn’t exactly the kind of man he was dreaming of. But Mr. Arnaud was good; and when one day he said to his wife:

– My dear wife, you don’t know how much you are for me. You are my whole life.

Then the heart of the woman melted out of affection; and from that time on he felt he was completely connected to his man, to the point, without the slightest thought. Every year, they drew them closer together. They had dreamed together a lot of beautiful. Dreaming about work, traveling, children. How did those dreams come true?… Oh, vain hope!… But we’re still dreaming of Arnaud. They also had a little child, whom he had dreamed so often, so deeply that he knew it as if it had existed. That was the dream he had built for years, beautifying everything he saw, the most he loved… But the realization: silence!…

That’s his life. But it contained whole worlds. How many unknown tragedies, the most high-end quality, often hide in their eyes, in peaceful, mediocre human scenes! And the tragic most might be: – that nothing happens in those still desperate, whose blood cries out comfortably to their righteousness, to the happiness promised to them by nature, to those who are indignantly indoctrinated by painful longing, and who do not look outward!

Luckily, m thought we had Arnaud more than himself. His own life took only part of the space in his dreams. He also lived the lives of those who were or were familiar with him today; he imagined himself in their position, he remembered Christophe Kraffy, his friend Cécile. He always thought of them. Those two women were cordially attached to each other. And the strangest thing was that just Cécile needed more support from them, relying on the weak Lucil. Actually, that big, happy and healthy girl you see was weaker than she could decide on her appearance. He was in a sort of period of puberty. Even the quietest hearts can not always be sure of surprises. He had unnoticed a rush of emotion that he didn’t want to recognize first, but it swelled, until he was forced to see him: – he loved Olivier Jeannin. The respectful and gentle behavior of that young man, his all-feminine charm, all that was weak and surrendered in him, was fascinated by Cécilen: – (the motherly character is always attracted to the one who needs it). “What Cécile had heard of Olivier’s open-mouthed, had raised him a dangerous pity on that friend.” But such reasons alone would not, of course, have been sufficient. Who can say why two people fall in love with each other? Often, neither of them has a special subject, but a long stay together can steal a heart that has not kept up with the first feeling it has awakened. – When Cécile noticed that there was no longer any doubt about what quality his feelings were, he was trying hard to get rid of the trap, because he considered his love to be criminal and impossible; he suffered for a long time and did not heal. No one knew how his body was: he tried with all his might to make him look happy. Only m: we Arnaud knew how difficult it was for him; not because Cécile would have revealed his secrets to him, but sometimes Cécile pressed his hard-headed head, m: we against Arnaud’s low chest, his eyes fell on a couple of hot tears, he kissed his friends and then went laughing at the house. Cécile worshiped her hollow friends, for she felt that she was stronger than herself for the strength of her chastity and the power of her faith. He didn’t open his heart to Lucil. But Lucile could guess the word. The world felt like a sad misunderstanding about him. It’s impossible to change it to another. Man can only love, pity another and dream.

And when the infinite number of dreams began to humming so abundantly that he could no longer think of anything, he stood near his piano and gave his fingers a touch of keyboards, how it happened, playing quietly, clipping the dazzling light of life into the dazzling light of life…

But that little little woman did not forget her everyday tasks; And when Mr. Arnaud came home, the lamp was already lit on the table and the dinner was ready, and the wife waited for her to smile on her face. And the man had no idea what kind of boundless universe the wife had lived in his absence.

The hardest thing was to melt those two different worlds together so that they did not come into contact: everyday life, and another, great spiritual life with distant air. It didn’t always work very well. Fortunately, Arnaud himself is part of the life of imagination, that is, in his books and works of art whose eternal fire kept the flaming flame of his soul. But in recent years he was increasingly being tempted by all sorts of small chores due to his profession: injustice, bias, mischief by coworkers and pupils; he had become bitter; had begun to talk about politics, bark the government and the Jews; he postponed the responsibility for all his own life’s disappointments to Dreyfys’ neck. His gloomy character also took his wife a little bit. M: we Arnaud was almost forty years old now. She was at the age when her life force was already a little damaged and her restlessness was looking for her balance. His thoughts were crunchy. For a while they both lost all their reason to exist: for they didn’t know where to place their spider web, which had to suddenly swing empty. Dreams always need some kind of support in reality, no matter how weak. Now they were not supported by anything. They could no longer rely on each other. The man grabbed his wife instead of helping him. And the wife realized she couldn’t help her husband: for that time she couldn’t help even herself. Only the miracle could save her then. He prayed for it. And it came from the depth of his soul. M: We, Arnaud, felt a lonely and pious heart coming out of a sublime and senseless need to create, weave even after the emptiness, just to the joy of weaving, to leave it to the wind, to wake God’s breath and to go where it was going to be. And God’s breath drew the net back to life, giving it an invisible base. Then the man and the wife both patiently began to weave that brilliant and futile composition of their dreams made of their purest suffering and heart blood. where it was going. And God’s breath drew the net back to life, giving it an invisible base. Then the man and the wife both patiently began to weave that brilliant and futile composition of their dreams made of their purest suffering and heart blood. where it was going. And God’s breath drew the net back to life, giving it an invisible base. Then the man and the wife both patiently began to weave that brilliant and futile composition of their dreams made of their purest suffering and heart blood.

M: We Arnaud was alone at home… Come on tonight.

The doorbell rings. M: We Arnaud woke up from his dreams before his usual time. He carefully wrapped his craft and went to open. The comer was Christophe. He looked very mobile. The lady kindly grabbed her hands.

– What is your good friend? he asked.

– Ah! said Christophe. Olivier came back.

– Came back?

– So, this morning, came and told me, “Christophe, help me!” I embraced her, she wept. Said to me, “I have no more than you. He left.”

M: We, Arnaud, shook his hand in his shock and exclaimed:

– Oh, wicked!

– He left, Christophe repeated. Went with his lover.

– What about their children? asked m: me Arnaud.

– She left her husband, child, all.

– It’s unhappy! Play m: We Arnaud.

– Olivier loved him, said Christophe, loved his whole soul, He didn’t rise from this attack. He hocked me, “Christophe, he’s cheated, me … my dearest friend has betrayed me.” I tried to say to him, “Because he has deceived you, he was not your friend. He is your enemy. Forget him, or kill him.”

– Oh, Christophe, what are you talking about now! That’s terrible.

– That’s right, I know this feels like a prehistoric brutality: kill his wife! Believe me, but beautifully this great Parisian world, which protests if a man kills supernatural woman who betrayed him, a world that preaches that merciful sense! Great apostles! It is hilarious to see this mischievous return of the beast to the animal. When you first have lost your life, deprived it of all its value, so they surrounded it with religious holiness… How strange: such a life that has no heart, no glory that does not matter, which is purely physical exuberance, vascular palpation in the meat carcasses, of them most respectful! They don’t know how tactful to have such a slaughterhouse meat piece: It is a crime to touch his fingers. Kill the soul, if you are amused, but the body is holy…

– The murderers of the soul are the worst murderers; But the crime doesn’t defend another crime, you know.

– I know it, my friend. You’re right, I don’t think what I’m saying … Or who knows, maybe I think.

– No, you just subdue yourself. So you are good.

– With a deep feeling comes over me, so I’m cruel like everyone else. You see, now, how am livid! … But when you see friends, to love, crying, would not hate being who is the cause of his tears? And can there ever be a harsh miserable offender who rejects his children to run after his lover?

– Don’t talk so, Christophe. You’re not feeling it.

– What, are you defending him?

– I’m sorry for her, she too.

– I’m sorry for those who suffer. I am not the ones who are responsible for the suffering of others.

– Oh, do you think he’s not suffering? Do you think she just left her children alone and ruined her own life? For the corrupt is his life. I don’t know him much, Christophe. I’ve seen him only twice in passing; he did not speak to me at the event just about any kind of kindness, he did not feel a sense of humor. But still I know him better than you. I am sure that he is not evil. Little woman-wrath! I guess what his inner life could have been …

– Well, my friend, whose life is so valuable, makes sense!…

– Yeah, I, Christophe. You don’t know, you are good, but you are a man, a hard man, like all the men in goodness, – a man who is firmly locked in everything that is not yours. You don’t understand those creatures that live in your neighborhood. You love them, but in your own way; You don’t worry about trying to understand them. You will be so easily satisfied with your own self! And you are sure that you know us … Oh! If you knew how we sometimes suffer when we see, I don’t mean that you don’t love us, but how you love us, what we are in the minds of those who love us the most! There are moments, Christophe, when we squeeze our nails into the palm of the hand to be shouting to you: “Oh, don’t love us, Don’t love me! Everything is better than loving!

– Your speech is shocking. I don’t really understand that. But I divine for … So you actually …

– I have also felt that to torture,

– Really?… But it doesn’t belong! You wouldn’t believe me that you could have done the same thing as that woman.

– I don’t have a child, Christophe. I don’t know what I would have done in his position.

– No, it’s not possible; I believe in you, I respect you too much, I can swear that it would be a molten impossibility for you.

– Don’t swear! I am about to make have been similar to his painful … I have to dispose of that beautiful notion, which ye have of me. But you have to learn a little to understand us if you do not want to do wrong. – Yes, I have been quite similar on the verge of foolishness. And I didn’t do it, to some extent your reward. It’s been two years now. I was having a difficult time then. I felt like I didn’t deserve anything that nobody cared about me, that no one needed me, that a man could have lived without me and that my life had gone completely … I wanted to save myself, do, God knew what! I came to you … Do you remember it? … you didn’t understand what I had come for. I came to say goodbye to you… And then, I don’t know how it probably happened, what you said to me, I don’t remember it so much … but I know that some of your words… (you didn’t realize what you said…) would illuminate me then… Or maybe they didn’t say it… Maybe it was just a coincidence; the slightest impulse was enough for me to destroy or rescue it… When I came from you, I went to my chamber, closed behind the lock, cried all day… And then it was good to have: the crisis had passed.

– And now, Christophe asked, do you regret it?

– Now? Play m: We Arnaud. Ah, if I had done that madness, I’d been on the bottom of Seine long ago. I would not have been able to endure such shame, nor the evil that I would have done to my husband.

– So you’re happy now?

– Yes, as happy as a man in this life can be. It is rare for two beings to understand each other, to respect one another, to know that they are certain, not just for the love of love, because it is often an imagination, but of many years of life together; gray, everyday years, with awareness of endangered dangers – which is most important. To the extent that man becomes older, it becomes better.

M: We Arnaud was silent and suddenly blushed.

-? A good father, how I am told this … What did I do not … Forget this, Christophe, I pray. No one should know it.

– Don’t be scared, Christophe replied and squeezed his hand.
That secret is sacred to me.
M: We Arnaud was so unhappy about his open-mindedness that he turned
away from Christoph for a moment . Then he continued:
– I shouldn’t have told you this … But you see, I did it to show you that the greatest of the living couples, those women … you respect, Christophe… sometimes comes when they don’t just bother, as you say, but really suffer; the intolerable moments that may lead to frenzy, destroying a whole human life, even two people. Don’t be too harsh. People produce pain for each other even when they love each other heartily.

– Should you live alone, each in your own corner?

– It’s even worse for us. If a woman has to live alone, fight like a man (and often against a man), life is just terrible in our society, which is not based on such an idea, but most often it is still hateful…

M: We Arnaud sat silently, slightly bowed, looking at the flames of the fireplace; then he continued gently, with a bit of vague voice, that I was too embarrassed and interrupted, and then went on again:

– And yet it is not our fault, women: if a woman lives in that way, she will not do it for the righteousness; he must earn his bread and learn to get along without a man because he doesn’t want him because of his poverty. A woman is condemned to loneliness but does not get the benefits of loneliness: for in our society, a woman, like a man, cannot enjoy her independence, not even in the most innocent way; – I have a friend, a teacher in a rural school. If he had been put in a stubborn jail, his life would not be more lonely and more compelling than he is now. The bourgeoisie closes its doors to women who are trying to live their own work; it expresses suspicions of disdain for them; their every step is beaten with malice. Those coworkers who are school boys do not care about them because they are partly afraid of the gossip of the city, are partly hostile to those women, or otherwise only shy to approach them, accustomed to being just a coffee lover, a lousy day of rest, or because they are tired of the day’s work, or overwhelmingly tired of bored women in their brain. Those women themselves can no longer tolerate each other, especially if they are forced to live together at the school’s full-time school. The leader is often the least able to understand these young, affectionate souls who, in their first years of hard work and inhumane loneliness, make them desperate; he gives their other secret, without trying to help them; he thinks they are just rude. Nobody cares about them. When they have no funds or social relationships, they will not get married. The amount of hours worked prevents them from creating a world of intellectual life that would entertain and comfort them. If their life is not maintained by a religious feeling or an exceptionally powerful Morali, (I say moral, as well as moral, because it is not natural for a person to sacrifice completely), so is their living death… – Does the charity, for example, offer women support in the absence of intellectual work? What kind of disappointment is for those of those whose souls are too honest to be satisfied with official or subtle charity, to see philanthropic laurels see such superficiality, a blend of mercy and bureaucracy, like playing with poverty in the midst of hissing and crapping! If any of them is so bold in their boredom that they leave alone in the midst of the poverty that they only know from the hearing, what is the vision for him! It’s almost impossible to tolerate! It’s hell itself. What can he do there to help? He’s just drowning in such a sea of ​​accidents. He fights, however, he tries to save some of those unfortunate, he is starving himself for them. He’s drowning with them. Happiness if he gets even one or two saved. But who will save him? Who cares about his help? For he suffers himself, all the sufferings of others, and his own; insofar as he casts faith on others, he still believes less and less in his own happiness; all the pains you see are clinging to him; and he has nothing to cling to. And no one will stretch out his rescue hand. And sometimes he is still being stoned… You knew Christophe, an admirable woman who sacrificed to the most humiliating and noble work of mercy that she might have: she took the streets of prostitutes who had received a child, those unhappy girls like the general charity clubs who don’t worry about them clubs are afraid; he tried to heal them physically and chastically, to care for them and their children, to awaken in them the worship of the mother, to get them homes, to make them live with decent work. None of his powers were enough for such a gloomy task, who was full of disappointments and bitterness, – (so few can save, because only a few want to be saved! And how many little children of those dying! Those innocents who have been convicted of their birth!…). And how do you think, Christophe, that a woman who had taken over all the pains of others, that innocent who voluntarily reconciled the crimes of human selfishness was usually criticized? The public’s malice blamed him for collecting money for himself with this job, even with the same kind of work as his shelter. And he had to get depressed out of the city quarter … – You can’t imagine how women who are independent of the cruel battle are now against our society, the old, heartless society,

– Dear friend, this is not just the fate of women. We all know its battle. And I know about salvation.

– What is it?

– Art.

– Yeah, you, but not the women. And how many men may resort to it?

– Look at our friend Cécile. He’s happy.

– How do you know that? Ah, how lightly you judge! When she looks crazy, she doesn’t want to bury things that make her sad. When he encrypts them from others, you say he is happy. Yes, he is happy to be healthy and able to fight. But you don’t know his battles. Do you think he was originally created for this art of deception? Art! That there really are female dragons who, as their true fortune, aspire to glory as a writer, singer, singer singer! Have they had to leave it all so that they did not finally know what they would be excited about? Art, what do we women do with art unless we have everything else with it? There is one thing in the world that can make us forget everything, everything else: a little, dear child.

– And when it is, it’s not enough, as you can see.

– No, not always … Women are not usually happy. It is difficult to be a woman. Much harder than a man. You’re not gonna send it right. You guys can get deep into one of your brain’s ideas, some activity. You can shred songs from your life, but you are happier than we are. A healthy woman cannot do it without suffering. It is inhumane to suffocate part of one’s self. When we are somehow happy, we are sad that we are not in another. We have many souls. You have nothing more than one, and it is more powerful, often rude, even unnatural. I admire you. But do not want to be too egoistic. You’re already involuntary. You do enough for us already in your unexpected.

– What can it do? It’s not our fault.

– No, it’s not your fault, good Christophe. Neither you nor us. All in all, see, life is by no means simple. You may say that you only need to live in a natural way. But what is natural then?

– It is true. Nothing is natural in life. Selibate is not natural. Marriage is not more natural. And the free covenants leave the weak to be more powerful. Nor is our socialism natural; we ourselves have hissed it. It is said that man is a companion. What a fool! He has been forced to become a companion to live. He bends into it in order to benefit, in order to defend himself, in pursuit of pleasure, greatness. This necessity forced him to sign some contrasts. But nature scratches and repels it forcing it. Nature is not created for us. We are trying to discourage it. It’s a clear war: it’s not strange that we often lose. How to deal with this? – So we’re strong.

– That we are good.

– Oh, yeah, God knows, so we’re good: we open our iron selfishness, breathe the air of freedom, love life, light, each of our modest roles, the little earthquake that we root in. If we can’t spread widely, let’s try to get deep and high, just like a tree growing in a cramped place tends towards the sun!

– Exactly. And most of all, one must love each other. If a man could learn more about being a woman’s brother and not just his victim, or rejecting the idea that a woman must be her own! Maybe they both give up their pride and think a little less about themselves and a little more about another!… We are all weak: let us help each other. Let us not say to the one who has stumbled, “I don’t know you anymore.” But, “Courage, my friend. Yes of this evil.”

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