Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. And many of these deaths could be avoided if it were not for superstition. “Bother it all!” she swore. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground.
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