Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid. “Dear friend,” she said, “remember that you are speaking to one who has failed in the only serious object which she has ever sought to accomplish. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. Not like my father. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish. Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends.
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