Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Remember that. Kneebone, on his return from Manchester. I can’t just go up to Josh and ask him out, even though I fantasize about doing just that all the time. Their future would be glorious; he saw it in their eyes; he saw it in the beauty of their young heads.
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