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. CHAPTER IV. “Look after her! Why not? But you have done it all your life. And you have to thank her presence, hot-headed boy, that I do not chastise your insolence as it deserves. Better take these sandwiches. At noon the doctor himself arrived. ’ ‘Is it, now? Well you won’t, then, for he won’t hear nothing, missie. There are many things which I do not understand. 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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