“Really,” she said. " He rose for fear she might touch him again. She fought a compulsive urge to yank his shirt free. Such a beautiful boy he is, but his intelligence is marginal. Nothing would induce me to marry you, or any man at present. He stood up and she ushered him out of the small room. 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.
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