“I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. ‘Come, come, ma’am,’ he said smiling. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. Sadly, the Christmas break came to an end. I couldn’t rest or eat or sleep. She tore open the envelope and read it. A crutch, with a silver handle, stood by her side, proving the state of extreme debility to which she was reduced. “If they matter to you, they matter.
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