"Well gentlemen, a novel is a mirror that passes for a road. Now reflects in your eyes the blue of the skies, now the mud of marshes. And you accuse be immoral man carrying the mirror-in the basket! His mirror shows the mire, and you accuse the mirror! Accused rather the way ... "(Stendhal)
"Well gentlemen, a novel is a mirror that passes for a road. Now reflects in your eyes the blue of the skies, now the mud of marshes. And you accuse be immoral man carrying the mirror-in the basket! His mirror shows the mire, and you accuse the mirror! Accused rather the way ... "(Stendhal)
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