Her grave fine face, her warm clear complexion, had already aroused his curiosity as he had gone to and fro in Morningside Park, and here suddenly he was near to her and talking freely and intimately. "What's that?—Jack's voice!" "It is," replied her son. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. If my conjectures are right, this boy would stay there indefinitely. All emotions laid hold of him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it.
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