“I murder people, John. She had felt very uncomfortable around him, grotesque. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. She brought the cups of cocoa back to the bedroom. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure. “You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression. Kneebone.
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