"Let him remain," interposed Trenchard. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. "Lean on me," said Jack. Mr. Kneebone took his leave.
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