“If you must go on with it,” said Hetty, “now’s your time. Taking her limbs was the only thing I could do short of killing her. ‘Ain’t my place, I know that. Their flitting hands were always touching. I needed a man the worst kind of way—a man I could keep for at least six months. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise.
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