Think of those days in Paris. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. Some day older people, perhaps, will trouble to understand younger people, and there won’t be these fierce disruptions; there won’t be barriers one must defy or perish. The evenings were dulcet and soft. For when this Joan said it, I had a memory. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface.
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