He scooped up Michelle’s unconscious body. It doesn’t seem to matter. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. Above the housetops it was different. ” She kissed him passionately, and ran lightly upstairs. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. Her naked body was an abomination of caked filth and sagging tubes for breasts. He was reaching wearily for some kind of buffer to his harrying conscience. A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom.
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