The dance itself was anticlimactic, with teenagers trying their best to look the part of adult sophisticates on the dance floor. “Let us walk across the Park at least,” he said to Ann Veronica. As if he read her thought, he spoke it aloud. So soft. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed.
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