I am loved. “How are you feeling?” She asked. A moistened velvet touch found her tongue. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. Wood, in equal trepidation. "Do you compare your love—a love which all may purchase—with hers? No one has ever loved me. Away off in the fields the bluesmocked peasants bent still at their toil.
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