She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. 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. "Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm towards him. Gerald switched to French.
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