It would not have been for her an anomaly to read a love story in which there were no kisses. But they were all pretty nearly of the same length, and built somewhat after the model of a boat, having extremities as sharp and pointed as the keel of a canoe. “I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop. The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. That Frenchie, that’s who she is.
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