” John traced his finger over the meeting point of her breast and her ribcage as they lay naked on his unmade bed. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. “So you’re the one my son has been talking about. A boy like John’s dashing friend David Mitchell, someone who shares your love of academics. Very slowly, very fearfully, she turned her head. The Supper at Mr. Then Anna spoke more seriously than usual. Almost instantly she had recognized the fallacy of such a statement.
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