“Not like it’s your fault if you wake up one day and decide you hanker for a nice piece of ass, a ten-minute tumble. ‘Can’t see a thing. "I call this ere crib the Little-Ease, arter the runaway prentices' cells in Guildhall. "I have nothing. He glanced up at the coachman. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. She pawed at him, her hunger for his body making her dizzy with anticipation. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. " "Your secret?" demanded Trenchard, impatiently. She did not wince.
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