“My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. I cut off her limbs so that she would not escape. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you. " "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. "Or trying to be," answered the doctor. It was a tale of battle, murder, and sudden death on the New York waterfront. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments.
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