He fondled her naked breasts with his fingers, then his mouth. “Oh, but life is difficult!” she groaned. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. Melusine soon found herself seated at a table, with a dirty piece of paper in front of her, and a badly mended pen between her fingers. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress.
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