“I’ve plenty of pals,” he said, “who, when they’ve been doing Paris on the Q. What she did not know, and what she was never to know, was that the divine fire was hers. It is a lovely little appendage to the mother who smiles over it, and it does things quaintly like her, gestures with her very gestures. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. He reached for her chin and lifted it up.
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