In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. Capes most trying. I have had my day; and there were women in it. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence.
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