In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. So she said: “I won’t come home. “I haven’t a scrap—of this sort of aversion. ” “I suppose not. You could walk the city streets and with every blink you could take in a new sight of beauty so great that your heart would weep for it. ” Lucy replied. ‘It is in truth you?’ ‘Of course it is I. ” He fumed.
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