“I do mean that,” she declared. His lovely black eyes softened until they became like languid as the night sky. Yet even now there were so many things untouched, so much to be learned. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness.
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