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. That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. Gerald saw her extract something and leapt aside, calling a warning to Hilary. “Remember,” he said, “you are not by any means a dying man now, but you’ll never pull through if you don’t husband your strength.
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