“Read this, John. ” “There’s art,” said Ann Veronica, “and writing. 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. "Hands off!" she exclaimed, "or you'll repent it. There he was, standing with a group of men who she presumed to be the other richest men in the world. I loved her and made love to her, and I don’t think she quite loved me back in the same way.
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