What shall I say, Gellius, how those rosy-red lips have become whiter than winter
snow, when you leave home in the morning and when the eighth hour stirs you from
a gentle nap amid the long day? Something is certain: perhaps Rumor whispers
true that you are devouring the well-grown tenseness of a man's middle? So for
certain it must be! the ruptured guts of poor little Victor and your lips marked
with what was lately-drained cry it aloud.
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