She took up a book and threw it down again. I care not. I made it a point to bring beachcombers to the house to fill her with horror of mankind. “Is that plain?” she asked. A small handgun bobbed at the end of it, aimed at Sheila. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure. But I can easily bring in a sing-song girl to play for you.
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