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. Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. Why, is the question I would like answered. "I wonder if you will understand what this kindness means to me? I am so terribly wise—and so wofully ignorant!" CHAPTER XII The doctor shifted his books and magazines to the crook of his elbow.
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