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His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. Except for a few early ebullitions of passion, natural to a warm and romantic disposition, and leaving no harmful after-effects—ebullitions that by the standards of the higher truth I feel no one can justly cast a stone at, and of which I for one am by no means ashamed—I come to you a pure and unencumbered man. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. “You have the temperament,” he said.
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