Something forbade him to draw her toward him and seal the compact with a kiss. I can vouch for that. She was poor. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. I want you to be my lover. “Is that a challenge?” She shrugged her shoulders, all ablaze with jewels. “I do want you.
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