“Manning,” she said, and contemplated a figure of inaggressive persistence. She lit the cigarette with a tiny Kelly green drugstore lighter. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. "Come to me!" cried the poor maniac, who had crawled as far as the chain would permit her,—"come to me!" she cried, extending her thin arm towards him. Manning told her he loved beauty, and extorted a similar admission from her; he then expatiated upon his own love of beauty. Very well, then. His mom was a famous model.
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