His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. Frequently he would take up a box of talc and send a shower down his back, or fill his palms with the powder and rub his face and arms and hands. S. His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours.
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