What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. “All right?” he asked. “I can say no more. “But a boy—a boy goes out into the world and presently stands on his own feet. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. A siphon and a whisky bottle stood before him.
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