"You have," rejoined Jonathan, laying a forcible grasp on his shoulder. Maggot. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. You—It’s jolly of you to confide in me. When I examined you for ‘ill humors’ I longed to run my hands over your entire body, to touch your face, to caress you in the places that would give you pleasure. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight.
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