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Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. What you did is called manslaughter, and at the worst there is only a very slight penalty, nothing to be frightened about in the least. “Tell him that he is mad. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. They sat in the windowed booth at the restaurant across from each other. Perhaps he had had money in the coat, back in Hong-Kong, and had been robbed without knowing it.
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