"You mean you were just sorry for him?" "As I would be for any human being in pain. But there is need for the proof that I am me, and that is what I look for. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. He confided to me that he felt trapped in his marriage, that he was being ruined by fate.
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