“There’s morbid beauty,” said Ann Veronica. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. The call of youth to youth, and we name it love for want of something better: a glamorous, evanescent thing "like snow upon the desert's dusty face, lighting a little hour or two, was gone. How's that strike you?" "Very well, sir.
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