My father lost me to The Beast at cards.
Theres a special madness strikes travellers from the North when they reach the lovely land where the lemon trees grow. We e from tries of cold weather; at home, we are at war with nature but here, ah! you think youve e to the blessed plot where the lion lies down with the lamb. Everything flowers; no harsh wind stirs the voluptuous air. The sun spills fruit for you. And the deathly, sensual lethargy of the sweet South is the starved brain; it gasps: "Luxury! more luxury!" But then the snow es, you ot escape it, it followed us from Russia as if it ran behind our carriage, and in this dark, bitter city has caught up with us at last, flog against the windowpao mock my fathers expectations of perpetual pleasure as the veins in his forehead stand out and throb, his hands shake as he deals the Devils picture books. The dles dropped hot, acrid gouts of wax on my bare shoulders. I watched with the furious icism peculiar ……（内容加载失败！）
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