I am carrying back a hundred new books and forty new records for the piano-player. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself.
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