She fled. Her figure was perfect,—tall, graceful, rounded,—and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. " "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood. To have written a short story in a week was rather a remarkable feat. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do.
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