She was like a book with the final pages torn out, leaving him at the mercy of his imagination. If he were to see her, she would no longer be an enticing mystery but a real woman, no longer a dream sylph his mind could turn to when things went awry with other women (as they always did) nor a magical solution to all the riddles and disappointments of his existence. Also, he theorized, he’d been so starved for love when he met her, so desperate for a life of his own, that he’d blown their youthful romance wildly out of proportion. It had been a summer of kisses, no more. If he could just see
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