I can’t. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. She wanted to be on with the show. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Wood in their favour. That was odd: when young people were joyous, they had to express it physically. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened.
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