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She flew up from her stool and faced the door. “You’re not interested in politics?” he asked, almost with a note of protest. But one was clearly the goddess among them, her face hidden, her body seeming to call out to me to possess it at once. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. He made the universe on those lines. He touched her breast as if he was testing the waters of a cold lake. "I don't know how it is," he added in a low voice to Thames, as they were left alone, "but I've a strange foreboding of ill.
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