His hand traveled below her loose neckline, and he cupped her round breast in his hand. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that. A lesson learned. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. She felt herself getting into a corner. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms.
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