He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. Her mouth lolled open and drool seeped down one corner. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself. ’ I wanted, as I have never wanted before, to take you up, to make you mine, to carry you off and set you apart from all the strain and turmoil of life.
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