“Why not? It might amuse me. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. Her blood spurted into his mouth and he drank. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. I speak no harm of her. “I wonder,” said Ramage, “that more girls don’t think as you do and want to strike out in the world.
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