‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. ’ The lashes fluttered demurely. The doctor missed the expression of terror and dismay that flitted across Spurlock's face. She started forward. Nor Jacques. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust.
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