He stood up abruptly and went to the window. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. She was flushed, and her eyes were bright and angry; her breath came sobbing, and her hair was all abroad in wandering strands of black. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. “So that’s the way it is.
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