She looked at him as he thrust deeply, his face contorted with pleasure as he watched her riding him. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. "Been to those places?" "No. "It's a miserable weakness to be afraid of bloodshed. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow.
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