It's gin—a liquor you used to like. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. " "You would purchase it at the price of your head," replied Jonathan, knitting his brows. .
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