“Forgive me,” he said. Lucy complied, slipping the tight jeans over her white underwear. Here was a poor half-naked creature, with a straw crown on his head, and a wooden sceptre in his hand, seated on the ground with all the dignity of a monarch on his throne. . A sacrifice. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. Or perhaps my father once.
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