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 felt surges of longing escape every corner of her flesh. What could I do at home? The other’s a crumple-up—just surrender. Stanley, standing on the hearthrug with his back to the unlit gas-fire. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts.
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