He remembered once when the grass was dump and she came to him on hurried feet, her thin slippers drenched with dew. She stood upon his shoes nestling close and held up her face, showing it like a book open at a page."Think how you love me", she whispered. "I don't ask of you to always love me like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside me there 'll always be the person I am to-night"
Francis Scott Fitzgerald
Tender is the night
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