The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Wild. ‘Did you sigh and flutter your eyelashes?’ ‘Certainly I did. ‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime.
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