When he begins to notice things, I want you to trap his interest, to amuse him, keep his thoughts from reverting to his misfortunes. He recognized the face instantly. She gave me an impression of a sort of patched quilt; little bits of patterned stuff coming up again and again. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. Wood was once a favourite of yours.
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