"Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. “You think that this is all. Were I to let you go, you'd say I feared you. Once she reached the bamboo curtain, clutched at it and tore it down as his arms went around her waist. What better way to be rid of him? ‘Jacques,’ she uttered urgently. As to the picture, I'll keep it myself, though, if you do go I shall need no memorial of you.
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