He tasted like cinders and ash, but not of smoke. She loped forward on unnaturally long legs and arms that swung loosely. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. But what did the occupant of the box care? The laugh was always with the dead: they were out of the muddle. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. " "Perhaps I read of it somewhere. She felt like Snow White in a secret forest house populated by dwarves. " "There you are, just as I said. She was by his side. ” There was genuine interest in her eyes now. Come!” They went out together and he called a hansom.
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