No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. He was in evening dress: swallow-tailed coat and white tie. His body had been maimed many times.
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