For your reading pleasure, Tempest presents yet another exquisite example of romantic narrative…

   Waiting alone in the Red Chamber, remembering its bloody history, with the pagan fragrance of a new spring wafting in from outside, the softly-sobbing Becky thought once more of Long Constance, the brilliant scholar who had wanted to make her his life’s work. He was now, according to persistent rumours, struggling for life in the intensive care ward.
   At long last came a peal of mighty bells, and she realized, in a single instant, what was now to happen. He was here! “Without you I am nothing, my Oriental pearl!” he husked simply.
   Then, without any warning, the truth — the whole truth — slowly came home to her, and as there was a much-appreciated break in the formerly-incessant shelling, she realized that it was now only a matter of time before they would be feeding off of each other's precious bodily secretions.

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