Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. This had well nigh been the case with the carpenter. The thought did not occur to her, for all thought had flown out of her head. He took her there on the cold, dirty floor, his nails digging into her back, his teeth sinking into her breasts. ’ ‘But you don’t look anything like her,’ burst out Mrs Ibstock. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image.
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