It reverberated in the silence. You are the one person I can understand and feel—feel right with. She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. “Poor old daddy! I wonder if he’ll spend much on the fatted calf?. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. "I could not believe you capable of so foul a deed.
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