It seemed to emanate from the back of the house. It seems that he was a sort of family friend of the Pellissiers, and it was the artist sister whom he was with. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. I shall want you. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit.
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