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Updated: May 27, 2025
He rose from the ground, and drew from his girdle Faringhea's bloody dagger; then, taking the little phial from the hilt, he threw the blood stained blade upon the ermine carpet, the immaculate whiteness of which was thus slightly stained with red. "Yes," resumed Djalma, holding the phial with a convulsive grasp, "I know well that I am about to die. It is right. Blood for blood; my life for hers.
Love has not two languages, and, without meeting, you have said all that you had to say to each other. Now, it is for you to act as her master, and she will be yours entirely." "It is strange very strange!" said Djalma, a second time, without removing his eyes from Faringhea's face.
The socius, provoked by this silence, and forseeing vaguely that Faringhea's arrival had some connection direct or indirect with Djalma, repeated, though still with the greatest coolness: "To whom, sir, have I the honor of speaking?" "Do you not recognize me," said Faringhea, advancing two steps nearer to Rodin's chair.
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