none made me happy, none were as important to me as Henry and Rose, who were only faces in my mind now, remembrances. They were no better than anyone else, no more lovely than the thousand other people I saw every moment, no less filthy, but all the same they were themselves, they were special because I knew them, because I had spent enough time pressed up against them to absorb a little part of their odor and skin and blood and emotion, because they were after all my friends. I wanted them.
