"What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. “You’re wanted for questioning, miss. Honestly, I never did. He meditated, and began a new paragraph. "What's that?" asked Wild. I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. Bodies! Bodies! Horrible things! We are souls. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure. If I were a clean, free man—We’ll have to talk of all these things.
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