"Violet said nothing, though big pearly tears, like a child's, trembled at her lashes. She suddenly missed John very much. Into him she could pour all ...
There was after all no mystery in the end of love, no mystery but the mystery of love itself, which was large certainly but as real as grass, as natural and unaccountable as bloom and branch and their growth.
Photo by Ákos Szabó
Photo by Ian Turnell
There was after all no mystery in the end of love, no mystery but the mystery of love itself, which ...
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