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She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. ‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. Love…. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. Always the other things remained. I often think of those delightful evenings in Paris.
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