It’s just life, pure life, life nascent, running clear and strong. 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. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie. ’ ‘Must we talk of it? I’m trying to forget it. . Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it.
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