We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. He smiled inwardly. She pulled the door so that it was not quite to, and held out her hand, palm up. Drowning, her brain dizzy, Melusine clung to the source of the flooding warmth, her hands, no longer forcibly held, moving without will about the firm back. His cigar burnt out between his fingers, and he threw it impatiently away.
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