"But I wish her hand had been as deadly as yours. 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. “My word holds,” she said. If I were to marry you now I should feel a dependent being all my life—a sort of parasitical creature without blood or muscle. She sprang to her feet and stood listening with parted lips and eager eyes. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear.
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