It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. “Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. Then he entered her passionately, riding her with exquisite precision. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. So, here he was, on the last lap of middle age, in China, having missed all the thrills in life except one—the war against Death.
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