For every Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a wolf. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Besides—there is Sir John. He winced from the wasp-like sting. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. ” She wanted to feast upon him badly, his passion, his youthfulness. It’s one of their worst traits, one of their very worst.
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