She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. Her skin prickled. The houses they flitted to and from were glutted with hangers-on, servant/mistresses, and errant prostitutes. He tried again. We can’t even protect them from themselves. I’m a little tired. There had been disappointments and humiliations, and although she hated to admit it even to herself, she was in desperate straits.
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