“Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said. As soon as he became convalescent, and all fears of his premature dissolution were at an end, Wild recommenced his rigorous treatment. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure. This obstacle removed, he thought he might now make the attempt. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you.
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