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... like the breeze passing by the ears, and eventually he forgot.
Only now, as his savior lay dying in his arms, a sad smile on her face, did he remember his old promise.
He clutched her hand, his blood boiling like flame in his chest as he whispered in her ears: “I always think of you… that year when you tossed down that cup and composed a poem… in my heart…”
This was a knot in his heart, and even as she lay dying, he needed to ask — that year, he had been moved by her action ...
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