She had lost it. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. ‘I must see the lady who is my great-aunt. I shouldn't talk like that. “How old are you?” “Sixteen. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended.
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