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Once when the wind was sweeping her gay garments, like hope-banners, against my limbs, and tangling her long, loose hair about me once when I was blind with the jewel-dazzle from her breast, thrilled by the passion-pressure of her hand, she said, in saddest, sweetest tones: 'I am erratic, Paulo, and exacting will you tire of me! O Immortality! Did not that seem sacrilege!
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