Earles’ waiting-room who would march you straight off to a registrar’s office. ‘You’re either mad, or in love. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Loving was self-forgetfulness, pure delighting in another human being. It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him.
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