She would flee to the wild fastnesses, the places where there were no overarching systems of any use, where she could blend with the unstable populace and kill in relative peace. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. Perhaps you'll give me in return some token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet again.
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