Anna, who was disposed to be sharply critical, could find no fault with it. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. But he was always forcing her to say and do such unexpectedly conclusive things. . ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt.
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