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. The conversation which her entrance had interrupted began to buzz again all around her. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. It’s gone. Lots of us are like that. Perhaps you'll give me in return some token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet again.
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