"Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you. And two other ladies.
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