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"Now, let's see who'll dare to take him down," she cried. She bussed his cheek with her small lips as he stood by the open door, and exited alone towards the sleeping house. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. “If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause.
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