He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold. 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. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. She was my first love. “I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell.
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