I have always understood that men avoid like the plague a woman with a sense of humour. There are boats on the lake and shady depths and wildernesses of pine-wood. Delight surged through her as her breasts, shoulders, and belly touched his naked flesh all at once. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts.
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