“Go from me, husband!” With a flourish he brought her arms behind her and her body was slammed to the floor. Balked, Melusine halted. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. " "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling.
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