” “An appetite like yours,” he said resignedly, “is fatal to all sentiment. Manning, in his entirely different dialect, indorsed her brother Roddy’s view of things. 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. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. I'll call it my wedding gift. ‘You will keep yourself utterly quiet,’ he instructed, a growl in her ear as they headed for the door.
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