’ He flushed. “Why not?” “Because you are mine. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. . He shuddered. . His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing. ’ She jumped up, and moved impatiently to the door. “How dare you!” she panted, with her world screaming and grimacing insult at her. I guess those books are okay because they are fiction. Well, I don’t think that’s fair.
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