She thought of Capes. "Nothing!" echoed the other, scornfully. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. We dine at seven-thirty. Something forbade him to draw her toward him and seal the compact with a kiss. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him.
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