You understand me, Charcoal. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. Now, will you stand aside?" "I won't," answered Jack, obstinately.
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