Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. ‘Naturally I had to come,’ confirmed the lively blonde, her eyes twinkling up at Alderley. He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh. He groped her buttocks. Think of those days in Paris. They were in different key, they had a different timbre. Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly. " After all those former bitter failures, this cup was sweet, even if there was the flavour of irony.
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