Stanley
had showed them a picture of him taken twenty years
and more ago when he was in college; he had looked
almost the same then--perhaps a little older.
``Well, I am waiting,'' persisted she.
She thought he was about to look at her--a thing
he had never done, to her knowledge, since they had
known each other. She nerved herself to receive the
shock, with a certain flutter of expectancy, of excitement
even. But instead of looking, he settled himself
in a slightly different position and fixed his gaze upon
another point in the horizon. She noted that he had
splendid hands--ideal hands for a man, with the same
suggestion of intense vitality and aliveness that flashed
from his eyes. She had not noted this before. Next
she saw that he had good feet, and that his boots were
his only article of apparel that fitted him, or rather,
that looked as if made for him.
She tossed her cigarette over the rail to the sand.
He startled her by speaking, in his unemotional way.
He said:
``Now, I like you better.
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