She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. “I confess it. ‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound. She wanted to kiss his feet. Her orgasm began as an insistent throb. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye. Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray.
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