Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. .
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