” “And you can’t?” “I don’t think I ought to control myself. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. Spurlock. Kneebone nodded. ” Her heart leaped within her as she caught that phrase. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally.
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