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. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. Barring that the Valade fellow had sneaked back. He gave glimpses of possibilities. “I’ve tried to make words tell it.
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