There were two sisters, you know. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. 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. On the floor, underneath the sixth row desks, was an ashtray with a small black dot of blood on its blunt round corner.
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