Profligate women are never reclaimed. . They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. . He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. For a big-bellied glass is the palette I use, And the choicest of wine is my colour; And I find that my nose takes the mellowest hues The fuller I fill it—the fuller! IV.
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