“I mean–always–that I am second, unless you will ever let me be first,” corrected St. Pierre, kissing the hand that was gently stroking his cheek.
And then he leaned his great head back against her where she stood behind him, and Carmin’s fingers ran where his hair was crisp with the singe of fire, and for a long time they said no other word, but let their eyes rest upon the dim length of the hall at the far end of which was David Carrigan’s room.
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