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Source global Wall Street Journal     time 2022-12-17 15:00:03
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"Oh no—really, Maurice, nothing."

"Breakfast is at half past eight."

"Your mother must be very different to mine."

"Ada, how long were you at school?" asked her brother, as he helped himself to a drink.

Clive took the receiver, but only a burr arrived. They had been disconnected. They could not ring Maurice up as they did not know where he was, and Clive felt relieved, for the approach of reality alarmed him. He was so happy being bandaged: his friend would arrive soon enough. Now Ada bent over him. He saw features that he knew, with a light behind that glorified them. He turned from the dark hair and eyes to the unshadowed mouth or to the curves of the body, and found in her the exact need of his transition. He had seen more seductive women, but none that promised such peace. She was the compromise be-tween memory and desire, she was the quiet evening that Greece had never known. No argument touched her, because she was tenderness, who reconciles present with past. He had not sup-posed there was such a creature except in Heaven, and he did not believe in Heaven. Now much had become possible sud-denly. He lay looking into her eyes, where some of his hope lay reflected. He knew that he might make her love him, and the

"I want a row and I'll have it." He came in his oldest manner and thrust a hand into Clive's hair. "Sit down. Now why did you write me that letter?"


"How do you mean, sir?"


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