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Unformatted text preview: quot;You're not Lasher," she said, the word almost dying on her lips. "You're just a man. You're a man standing here." "I am Lasher," he said gently as if trying to protect her from the coarseness of his words. "I am Lasher and I am in the flesh, and have come again, my beautiful one, my Mayfair Witch." Lovely enuncia- tion, careful yet so rapid. "Flesh and blood now, yes, a man, yes, again, and needing you, my beauty, my Gifford Mayfair. Cut me and I bleed. Kiss me and you quicken my passion. Learn for yourself." Again there was that disconnection. The terror couldn't become old, or tedious, or even manageable. Surely a person this frightened ought to mercifully lose consciousness, and for one second she thought indeed she might do that. But she knew that if she did, she was lost. This man was standing there before her; the aroma that flooded her was coming from him. He was only a foot or two away from her now as he looked down at her, eyes radiant and fixed and imploring, face smooth as a baby's and lips almost rosy as a child's lips. He seemed unaware of his beauty, or rather not to be consciously using it to dazzle her, or distract her, to comfort or quiet her. He seemed to see n...
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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.
- Spring '10