You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. Brown strode to center stage and Lucy quieted the instruments with a gesture. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. “Thousands! Ugh! And found it a worse slavery. He said that for him beauty justified life, that he could not imagine a good action that was not a beautiful one nor any beautiful thing that could be altogether bad. I was just like a sort of dummy that does things as it is told—that is to say, as the strings are pulled.
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