She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. You see, I have had to look after myself so long that I have developed a terrible bump of independence. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround.
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