I mentioned sixty, I believe, when I was in Paris, but there are expenses, and just now business is bad. And probably the girl would wear herself out, too. Her girl Clarice was next, dying within a single day, blood leaking from her pretty brown eyes like an image of the Blessed Virgin. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone.
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