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His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. ” He writhed. ” “I know—” said Ramage, with sympathy. But it was otherwise with the carpenter. Don't you remember? There were four of us, and we went touring in the city. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. Who are you going with?\" \"Nobody. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. She took the initiative and guided his fingers inside her and bore down.
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