You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. The door popped open with a sigh. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. “You know,” he went on, “this doesn’t seem to me to end anything.
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