She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. “Why, among other things, did I put my knuckles in his neck—deliberately to hurt him?” She tried to sound the humorous note. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. " So saying, he slung it upon his wrist. Blood, they say, won't come out. ” “Do you drink blood?” He stood up. Of course, it really signified nothing in this careless part of the world that she was travelling alone.
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