The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. “I supposed that he took off his hat to you. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. How could you draw the curtain aside which hides the great and holy places of life—you, who have never loved?” “You have become French to the core,” she murmured.
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