“What have you done to yourself?” he muttered. Moreover, he's a Yale University man, and he'd be good company. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. And he had good reason before long to congratulate himself on his forbearance. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. "I'll call you when you're wanted. The fellow is little better than a lunatic. He watched her constantly, trapped her in corners and slept with his arms locking her like a human cage. She felt terrible lying to him.
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