“I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. “I’m only arguing against your position of what a woman should be, and trying to get it clear in my own mind. “Not like it’s your fault if you wake up one day and decide you hanker for a nice piece of ass, a ten-minute tumble. He opened the drawer of the writing table. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead.
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