F. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. But it’s love you should’ve had when you were tiny and I didn’t give it to you. The natural gaiety of the place seemed to have affected them both. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. “Non. Alban's to-night. It has come,—and sooner than you expected.
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