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. His glasses were gone. “I have been training myself to look askance at beautiful things. “Where?” “To that ball. And, if I'd my own way, I'd drown 'em all like a litter o' puppies. At the back of her mind, dim and yet disconcerting, was the perception that she herself did not know what she wanted. “Well——” She stopped short.
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