He knew me, Nigel. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. The chair had extension arms over which a man might comfortably dangle his legs. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha.
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