He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. ‘How much does he know?’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned narrowed eyes on Gerald. She looked at him as he thrust deeply, his face contorted with pleasure as he watched her riding him.
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