It was if the world had blinked out for a moment. Possessed of you, I shall have a treasure such as kings could not boast. She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. “You let him touch you!” John whispered back. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. 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.
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