I believe that the common report was that you and your sister had come to Paris to study painting. She answered him with another kiss, long and deep. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. She liked to cook even though normal food was not nourishing to her. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. “Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do. Loving was better than that.
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