It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. "Why, of hanging the fellow who acts as his jackal; one Blake, or Blueskin, I think he's called. Even in death, Vorsack was not a man. “What made you think” he said, abruptly, with the gleam of avidity in his face, “that love makes people happy?” “I know it must.
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