There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. Eating him while he was at the end of a heroin binge left her sleepy and dazed.
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