I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands. As soon as he was gone, Jonathan went up stairs to the audience-chamber; and, sitting down, appeared for some time buried in reflection. 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. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave.
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