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 And a cold sorrow—which, if I had seen Much more of it might yet have mastered me. But I would see no more of it. 'Well, then,' He said, 'have you thought yet of anything Worth saying? If so, there's time. If you are silent, I shall know where you are until you die.' I can still hear him saying those words to me Again, without a loss or an addition; I know, for I have heard them ever since. And there was in me not an answer for them Save a new roiling silence. Once again I met his look, and on his face I saw There was a twisting in the swarthiness That I had often sworn to be the cast Of his ophidian mind. He had no soul. There was to be no more of him—not then.