He laughed lightly. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. I don’t see any good in life if it hasn’t got you in it. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. The tears were welling over now, but her voice was steady. No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out.
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