He turned the wheel carefully as he touched her neck with the other, threading her soft curls in between his slim fingers. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. “It will spoil your life. Superstition is the Chinese Reaper. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. She spotted her opportunity.
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