Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. The key's in the lock, on the inner side. “How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still.
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