The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park. You'll live to hate chicken; and the man in you will rise up and demand strong drink. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. ‘I try to be. ‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy. "Do you know what you make me think of?" "What?" "As if you had stepped out of some old family album.
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