CHAPTER VIII. "It is time!" "For what?" grumbled the latter, rubbing his eyes. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. As he pocketed it, her open palm reached out and slapped his cheek. It vosh plain he vent dat vay. 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. Lucy ate without passion.
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