The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. Go easy. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. ’ That wonderful poster—is of you. He's worth a dozen of you. "I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. “My dear,” she began, with an affectionate hand on Ann Veronica’s shoulder, “I do SO wish you would realize how it grieves your father. She looked away.
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