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All the good friends at the beginning whom I'd chosen,
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who had lightened my hours and to whom I wanted to give back the strength they had given me,
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had fallen, one after the one,
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all of them, until I was alone in a crowd of indifferent men.
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And among those whose support I wished for,
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to make this cult of the dead more fervent, was Benoit,
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dearest to my heart and most valued friend.
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I said to myself, 'he, at least, will be saved.'
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And I believed it.
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Then one morning in the white hospital room the male orderly handed me a card
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and on this card I read 'Benoit is dead.'
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I felt a crushing sorrow.