” She laid her hand softly upon his. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. ” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. People of your sort—I don’t want the instincts to—to rush our situation. It is she that I must see. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said.
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