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Summary
It would be different if he had any doubt as to Laurence’s affections.
Every night Laurence –always up with the lark– rises from his chair first, to carefully put away his voluminous correspondence or set his book upon the shelf. “Goodnight, Tharkay,” he will say, brushing carefully by the man’s chair. Tharkay will reach out and seize whatever part of him has come most conveniently into reach and say “It is Tenzing, damn you,” and tilt his face up to be kissed.