Then as she lay very still, with her hands clinched and her black hair tumbled about her face, he came still closer and softly kissed the nape of her neck. And she was about as capable of intelligent argument as a runaway steam-roller. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. E. “Life’s so queer,” she said, kneeling and looking into the flames.
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