"What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. The beachcomber, the lowest in the human scale; and some day he would enter into this estate. We went our ways. But she had spent nearly half of it, and had no conception of how such a sum could be made good again. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. He pulled away.
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