It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. He felt her warm breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair as she leaned over him. And yet that could not be: it was a confession only in the event of his death.
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