But what a monster was this Emile. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. Except for a few early ebullitions of passion, natural to a warm and romantic disposition, and leaving no harmful after-effects—ebullitions that by the standards of the higher truth I feel no one can justly cast a stone at, and of which I for one am by no means ashamed—I come to you a pure and unencumbered man.
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