It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. Earles said, rubbing his hands together, “by post. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance. In and out of consciousness she sailed, hearing voices from memory that she could not distinguish from reality.
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