In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. Seizing her hand he covered it with kisses. If it is that I am in the least French, and that you do not like it—’ ‘I don’t like it,’ snapped the old man. ” “Of course,” he said, reaching out his hand tentatively for his hat, “I could go away even now. Age is set, impervious to innovations.
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