He rested on one elbow. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. ‘Now what?’ The girl’s voice was shaking, and there were, he saw now, angry tears in her eyes. With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. And afterward her mother and Alice kissed long and clung to each other. His age was not far from fifty.
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