The power of perpetuating our property in our families is one of the most valuable and interesting circumstances belonging to it, and that which tends the most to the perpetuation of society itself. It makes our weakness subservient to our virtue, it grafts benevolence even upon avarice. -- from REFLECTIONS ON THE REVOLUTION IN FRANCE, by Edmund Burke He was alone. He was desperately lonely. There was no one to whom he could turn: aside from his group mates, he had no friends. His conception of love with Nayeon was a romantic blur, evoked from his reading of Balzac and tempered with memories of Sunday afternoons with her, and now with jolly youths with affectionate linked arms, bawling out a cheer-song nearby. No one had given him even the rudimentary idea of the somewhat rudimentary life with a lost love. In the pastoral setting he was in at that very moment, a young man was enabled to loaf listlessly and stared aimlessly. Presently he heard a woman's slow heavy tread upon the paved pathway: she entered in a swimming tide of light. Shielding the light from his eyes, he could see her now more plainly. She had black hair, coarse and abundant. She was whitely plastered with talcum powder. He embraced her with feverish desire, fondling her with his long nervous hands. Indecisively, he sat down on the bench and drew her down clumsily on his knee. She yielded her kisses with the coy and frigid modesty of the provincial harlot, turning her mouth away. She shivered as his cold hands touched her. He trembled, unnerved and impotent. Passion was extinct in him. But his chattering flesh warmed slowly: his young strength responded mechanically, in spite of his weary heart. The lost bright wonder died.