Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. She calls him a pig, and she says he ain’t Valade. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself.
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