“But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. It was common name, so I was thrown off the scent. Nobody knows what his real name is, but he's a Hollander. . ’ A reluctant laugh escaped him. That wasn’t even the worst thing. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical.
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