She read for half an hour, then closed the book because Spurlock appeared to have fallen asleep. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910.
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