And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. 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. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. \"Of course not. He was content to talk about himself, though in the back of his clever mind he already suspected that she was not offering any details about her life.
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