Whisky kills him suddenly; it does not sap him gradually. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. He was always in a state of semi-intoxication, but he was always gentle with me. There were a few loose, broken fragments of rock to reckon with upon the ledges, and one place where hands did as much work as toes. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms. “I told you I did not love you. ” “It is ironic that you say that, John, for it is I who am afraid of you.
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