Anne Rice - v1, Lasher

on and on it had gone as she tried from time to

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Unformatted text preview: his arms sliding under her. He lifted her, and rose to his feet with her, tumbling her against his chest. 205 She cried. She sobbed. Free from the bed, free, if only she had the strength to put her hands around his neck and- "I'll bathe you, my darling dear, my poor darling love," he said. "My poor beloved Rowan." Were they dancing in circles? Or was it only that she was so dizzy? She smelled the bathroom-soap, shampoo, clean things. He laid her down in the cold porcelain tub, and then she felt the first jet of warm water. "Not too hot," she whispered. The glaring white tile was moving, marching up the walls all around her. Flashing. Stop. "No, not too hot," he said. His eyes were bigger, brighter, the lids better defined when she had last looked at them, the eyelashes smaller yet still luxuriant and jet-black. She noted this as if jotting it down on a laptop computer. Finished? Who could guess? To whom would she ever give her findings? Dear God, if that package had not reached Larkin . . . "Don't fret,...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.

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