He could see lust virtually dripping from the dark-haired boy’s maw as she teased every last note from her shuddering violin, the devil in a black skirt. He was sickeningly aroused by their hands as he slipped in and out of consciousness. It was of no use, she let him do it as she could not be strangled. “Why will you not be sensible? Go back to your old life and your old friends, and forget all about Paris and this absurd delusion of yours. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. Here one might live the life of golden days.
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