Do not underestimate my power. She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. Just a formal marriage. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt. “Well?” she said.
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