This lover of yours—” “He doesn’t know!” cried Ann Veronica. I’m so glad you’re not angry. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. He's as generous as he's frolicsome. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. That is why I am here. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone.
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