Again returning to the main road, he passed through Clapton; and turning off on the left, arrived at the foot of Stamford Hill. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. Never again would he repeat that kiss; but at night when they separated, he would touch her forehead with his lips, and sometimes he would hold her hand in his and pat it. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death.
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