His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. “Damn!” said Ann Veronica to herself, rousing herself for a conflict. You've nothing to do but to take possession. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. She stabbed him with her canines. And the grotesquest fact was that she did not so much loathe, as experience with a quite critical condemnation this strange sensation of being kissed.
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