She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet. “It couldn’t be. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. It is the only way. He’s out in Phoenix last I heard.
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