"Mr. She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself. It was a sovereign easily earned. His blood would be sweet with it. When you don’t have any toes left, I take your precious little cock. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination.
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