"Heed her not. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. Yours?" The stranger hesitated. "I have nothing. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. Deep silences came between them. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. They happen to a man. We remember it.
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