He laughed reassuringly. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. Take, if you please, your own pistol. Her thick body was heavy and massive. ” “You mean you’re going to run away with me?” He asked in semi-seriousness. She held out her hand for it, but Gerald smiled. He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. He sat up in his chair as though the question had stung him. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. Youth finds it pleasant sometimes to be melancholy. .
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