You’re mine. It was the first expression of the mother's blood. His arms released from his 68 sides, he lifted them around her in a light embrace. She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. Only you seem to me since the time when I knew you in Paris to have changed—to have changed in some subtle manner which I find at times utterly bewildering.
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