Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. What happened? Did you turn me?” “Yes, my love. “TROUSERS!” she whispered. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish.
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