" "What is it?" asked the poor woman. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. She was, she guessed, close to the library. ‘No need to shake in your boots,’ Gerald said soothingly. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. “I can survive on my own. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress.
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