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. ‘Unheard of, ain’t it? To tell the truth, I half expected him to leave everything to one of his doxies. These petals! I’ve been wanting to cry all the evening, cry here on your shoulder for my petals. “Mean as an old mule, too. I don’t know why that should be so acutely humiliating. That is what my mother used to call me. It was an impulse.
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