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There was something most passionate in Eleanor's reading aloud. They
seemed nearer, not only mentally, but physically, when they read, than
when she was in his arms, and this was often, for they fell half into
love almost from the first. Yet was Amory capable of love now? He could,
as always, run through the emotions in a half hour, but even while they
revelled in their imaginations, he knew that neither of them could care
as he had cared once before—I suppose that was why they turned to
Brooke, and Swinburne, and Shelley. Their chance was to make everything
fine and finished and rich and imaginative; they must bend tiny golden
tentacles from his imagination to hers, that would take the place of the
great, deep love that was never so near, yet never so much of a dream.
This Side of Paradise
(1920)
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