She was inclined to think that perhaps for a girl the converse of his method was the case; an older man, a man beyond the range of anything “nonsensical,” was, perhaps, the most interesting sort of friend one could meet. “Why?” He inquired. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. "When a man reaches the lowest scale through drink, we call him a beachcomber. At last, he got into a lane, but had not proceeded far when he was again alarmed by the sound of a horse's tread. I am really in earnest. “It’s very good,” she said.
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