And I think also that Gosse—I mean that one who calls himself Valade—stole it. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. She looked at him as he thrust deeply, his face contorted with pleasure as he watched her riding him.
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