Many’s the young ’un I’ve seen get hisself into just such a knuckleheaded mess all on account of a pretty wench. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. Wood was heard without, angrily demanding admittance.
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