The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. Sometimes when adrenaline rushes through a body. She was particularly charmed by his theory of friendship. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. “My name,” Anna replied calmly, “is certainly Pellissier, but I repeat that I do not know you. “Dear friend,” she said, “this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best.
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