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At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. “At a boarding-house?” he gasped. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. She—She can snub him. She had felt very uncomfortable around him, grotesque.
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