‘Well?’ she said. ‘Moi, je vais vous tuer!’ ‘I don’t think so,’ Gerald said through his teeth. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. You knew me in Paris. It ought never to have begun. His arms were naturally big and his chest was covered with a smattering of soft hairs. I want to be with you.
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