” She stopped short, full of things un-said. He gently took the roses from her and laid them on the pillow. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. He would get her to come to tea with him, usually in a pleasant tea-room over a fruit-shop in Tottenham Court Road, and he would discuss his own point of view and hint at a thousand devotions were she but to command him. ‘I feared as much. E. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. Can you kill yourself?” He asked quietly.
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