“You silly fool,” he said. A sprinkling of callow youths, and a couple of pronounced young Jews, who were talking loudly together in some unintelligible jargon of the City. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. When John’s parents weren’t home, they made love in his bedroom. He laughed suddenly, and released her. ” He asked questions and listened to her views for a time. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. The nuns, they were very good with a whip. I’d only get a pack of lies in reply. They were Jonathan Wild and Quilt Arnold. But the objects in his range of vision remained unchanged. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. 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.
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