She was my first love. Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica. There was a very white-faced youngster of eighteen who brushed back his hair exactly in Russell’s manner, and was disposed to be uncomfortably silent when he was near her, and to whom she felt it was only Christian kindness to be consistently pleasant; and a lax young man of five-and-twenty in navy blue, who mingled Marx and Bebel with the more orthodox gods of the biological pantheon. And there was another matter. The boy was all conscience, and he suffered through this conscience to such lengths that the law would be impotent to add anything.
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