That he had been born an artist—in all ways—a paragon of romantic torment out of the likes of some Brontë novel—has yet to make itselfknown to him. He watches himself unfold.
Topics: Wheston Chancellor Grove
That he had been born an artist—in all ways—a paragon of romantic torment out of the likes of some Brontë novel—has yet to make itselfknown to him. He watches himself unfold.
That he had been born an artist—in all ways—a paragon of romantic torment out of the likes of some Brontë novel—has yet to make itselfknown to him. He watches himself unfold.
That he had been born an artist—in all ways—a paragon of romantic torment out of the likes of some Brontë novel—has yet to make itselfknown to him. He watches himself unfold.
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