In the upper hall he paused to listen. Jests are not for seasons like this. It was fastened inside. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture.
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