‘You wouldn’t know one end of a pistol from the other. The door was closed— locked,—and the pair were heard descending the stairs. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. She held her hand to the place where he had slapped her. The light of memory flashed in the man’s face.
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