They don’t count, and I don’t care. He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. But pathologically, he is still on the edge. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. Even then it sent Spurlock spinning backward, to crash against the wall. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. “I wanted to make love to you.
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