” She looked at him with curious eyes. Conscience drove him to this side of the world, to this bed. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. ‘You are the one that I have met in London. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love.
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