She was not altogether surprised when she found a deer, gutted of its entrails and strung with a garland of flowers, on the cave’s doorstep one humid summer morning. Jack paused for a moment, and found that his own adventures formed the subject of the ballad. You don’t know. We are both graduates of Yale. "Where are you going?" she asked. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. Of course I know nothing of what really did happen in Paris—if even you ever saw him there.
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