It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. The Dawn Pearl. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. “All right?” he asked. Always.
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