Katy’s face was vapid and undistinguishable from a crowd, but pretty in an abstract sense, like the face of a baby doll. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully.
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