Jack Kimble nodded eagerly. She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. I’M shaken. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally.
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