His hand fell lightly to her chest where her heart was 211 beating, almost tenderly. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. But such is the perversity of the human that frequently thereafter he purposely crooked the part in his hair, to give her the excuse to fetch the comb. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so.
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