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Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.
“Let’s take him,” Lo would often plead, rubbing her knees together in a way she had, as some particularly disgusting pollex , some man of my age and shoulder breadth, with the face claques of unemployed actor, walked backwards, practically in the path of our car.
And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita.
Author: Vladimir Nabokov