” Anna shook her head. "Would you rather be alone?" "No. She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol. She looked stealthily at Anna. 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 ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. She was nearly dead.
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