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. Our heads swim with the thought of being together. ’ ‘And I love the way you call me imbecile,’ finished Gerald. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque.
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