She observed the tides, amazed by how high the water could rise, almost touching the tops of the cliffs. 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. She wanted to come, and I wouldn't let her. With such qualifications as she possessed, two chief channels of employment lay open, and neither attracted her, neither seemed really to offer a conclusive escape from that subjection to mankind against which, in the person of her father, she was rebelling. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love.
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