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He remembered the fatal touch of Cad Sills's kiss at Pull-an'-be-Damned, which had as good as drawn the soul out of his body in a silver thread and tied it in a knot. Once, too, he had dreamed of waking cold in the middle of the night and finding just a spark on the ashes of his hearth. This he nursed to flame; the flame sprang up waist-high, hot and yellow.
There were girls upon girls with eyes as black, cheeks as like hers as fruit ripened on the same bough, hair as thick and lustrous yet at the sound of Caddie Sills's bare footfall eyes shifted and glowed, and in the imaginations of these men the women of their choice grew pale as the ashes that fringe a fallen fire. "She's a perilous woman," muttered the collector of the port.
This odor haunted him, as if delights forgotten, only dreamed, or enjoyed in other lives, had drifted past him. Then the vivid touch of Cad Sills's lips. He glanced up, and at once his oars stumbled, and he nearly dropped them in his fright.
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