And if I don’t, I go mad. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. “Oh my God, what if she’s dead?” More giggling. This hand consigned him to destruction, but another was stretched forth to save him. He was always word-building, a metaphorist, lavish with singing adjectives; but often he built in confusion because it was difficult to describe something beautiful in a new yet simple way. Her lips came together with an expression between contentment and the faintest shadow of a smile, her manner was one of quiet reserve, and behind this mask she was wildly discontented and eager for freedom and life.
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