But he could only utter an inarticulate exclamation. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. He was a shy boy outwardly but she knew him better in his thoughts, in which perhaps she had already taken upon the role of lover. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects.
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