“YOU wouldn’t like to be independent?” he asked, abruptly. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. “You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression. ‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. Thanks. ’ A reluctant laugh escaped him. And as she was yet waiting for her tea to come she saw this man again. ‘This is not love, Marthe. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour.
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