It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. 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. After all, they’re history in the making. He threw up his hand, reeled for a moment on his feet, and collapsed upon the floor. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t.
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