It was a reputation by no means deserved. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. “Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne. The danger you put yourself in by remaining here astounds me. She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. Your mind is still subtly sick.
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