He encouraged her to join him in his debauchery. She hadn't measured up; she had been stupid; she hadn't known how to make love. ‘Seems to me, missie, as you’re as dangerous a female as I’m like to see. And Pottiswick, of course. A Madame Valade and her husband. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. "My lips would belie my heart were I to refuse you. We’re handfuls.
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