After a while he spoke again. Ennison reeled, and almost fell. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure. ‘All these soldiers,’ she complained, adding with a sweep of one arm at the major’s dress, ‘all of them in red as you. The door leaned inward. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. Perhaps I am still mad. .
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