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She knew that her voice was superior to Annabel’s, and she had no further qualms. Part 8 And as she sat on her bed that night, musing and half-undressed, she began to run one hand down her arm and scrutinize the soft flow of muscle under her skin. "At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up. 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. She was not allowed to bathe herself: another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her. Be a good wife to him. " "Silly love stories?" "No; love wasn't the theme.
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