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It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. Lucy had been ignoring her, not purposefully, but noticeably. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. When the disillusion comes, when the fairy story ends, if she is blessed with children, she doesn't mind. He made a quick movement towards her, but she did not flinch.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 27-09-2024 21:43:05