She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. You are different from all the world for me. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. You know that I am practically destitute, without means or any certain knowledge of where my next meal is coming from. But you belong to me—and I want you. I rarely set foot in London these days. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. ‘Do not be imbecile.
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