And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. ’ ‘But you must want more. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged.
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