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. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. ’ ‘To you,’ she said angrily. After all, life had still its pulsations.
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